


Only Preparation

by StarWarsSyl



Series: Padawan of Fear Duology [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Rise of Empire Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Apprenticeship, Astromechs, Attachment does not equal love in this fic, Battle Droids, Brotherhood, Canon Compliant, Clan Mother - Freeform, Clones, Developing Friendships, Friendship, Gen, Jedi, Jedi Code, Jedi Culture Respected, Jedi Temple Archives, Jedi Temple Kitchen, Jedi Temple Library, Jedi Temple Life, Jedi Temple Nursery, Jedi Training, Loss of Parent(s), Mando'a, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Original Male Character(s) - Freeform, Parent-Child Relationship, Vode An, War, With Touches of the EU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-08-31 09:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 95,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8572534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarWarsSyl/pseuds/StarWarsSyl
Summary: A story comprised of mostly Original Characters...
With very limited connection to anyone "important" in the Star Wars universe...
And no ships.
There is no reason in blazes you would want to read this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All original characters are my own invention, along with original planets, original species, original battles, and original battalions.
> 
>  
> 
> The following story will contain graphic depictions of war and combat, and the moral, emotional, and psychological struggles of those who fight in this particular war. It will also explore the costs of the war, not just on the participants, but the bystanders and those living in occupied territories as well, including underage civilian casualties.

**Eleven and a half years after Star Wars Episode I**

**(A** **year and a half since the First Battle of Geonosis— the start of the Clone War)**

 

 

 

“Please, Master Yoda, not again,” Harissa Nol pleaded.

Not for the first time, she wished she wasn’t so tall. It made begging for mercy from Yoda difficult.

It was her private opinion that her height gave him an unreasonable level of expectation from her. Of what she could do, of what she could take.

“Remain Masterless always, you cannot,” Yoda insisted, a bit of sternness in his tone.

“I’ve been thinking.” Harissa firmed her jaw and tightened her eyebrows in an attempt to look confident. “I’m not sure I want to be a knight. Especially with the war.” The words spilled out of her mouth like a waterfall, making the effort with her face completely pointless. Not that it mattered. She could see Yoda wasn’t going to be moved. She spoke faster, more urgently, even while knowing her cause had lost before its beginning.

“Maybe I should be in the Agricultural Corps— or even a librarian. A nursery worker? Master, I’d be willing to cook—”

“Suited to be a librarian you are not, and talent with growing things, you do not have. A confidence that any of these paths is the right one, you do not possess. Out of fear, you ask.”

Harissa bit her lip.

Now would come the fear leads to anger lecture.

The thing was that Harissa rarely felt anger.

Fear was something constantly with her.

If fear led to anger...

It was so far down the road that she couldn’t see it.

“Master, I don’t even know who you’re talking about—”

“Ima-Gun Di, a wise master is. Intrigued by your case, and willing to take you as his apprentice.”

“Does he know what happens to Masters who claim me?” she demanded, her fear deepening. “I’ve been on my own for a year and a half. I’ve been learning, I’ve been _improving._ I’m sure I can reach my trials without needing anyone else to _die._ ”

Yoda frowned. “On your own you have been, because distracted I was.” He jabbed his gimmer stick at her. “No more falling through the cracks!”

“Maybe the Force is trying to tell us something. Maybe the fact that they always die means I’m not supposed to have a Master. Shouldn’t we be listening to the For—”

“Harissa.”

There was no getting around the severity of tone now.

“When conquered your fear is, discuss this again we can. Until then, continue with a Master you will.”

There it was.

The death sentence of another innocent Jedi.

Harissa felt her gut churn.

She listened in silence as Yoda explained that Master Di would come for her a week from today. She should consider it her vigil of meditation and preparation.

The week when a prospective Padawan searches the Force to see if the match was right.

Only this time, unlike the times before...

Harissa couldn't say no.

At the end of it, Ima-Gun Di would take her away from the safety of the Temple and back to his command of clones on the front lines.

Battle.

Harissa was going to be dragged into the middle of battles with droids.

Did Yoda not care that Harissa, in the first year and six months of her Padawanhood, had lost three Masters to death? Two Jedi Knights, and one Jedi Master? Didn’t he think it strange that both her Finder and her first Youngling Clan Mother had also died?

Yoda and the Council could tell her all they liked that this had nothing to do with her.

But the fact remained that no Padawan in the Order had a history of so much death surrounding her.

She hadn’t been able to find record of any Padawan in history, either, with her track record.

And now Master Yoda wanted to give her to another and send them into a war?

If she’d lost three Masters without such odds...

How could she possibly keep this one alive?

Ima-Gun Di.

She had a week to find out everything she possibly could about him, and try to convince the Council of its mistake.

She couldn’t have his death on her conscience too.

She couldn’t let him be number six.

 

* * *

 

Harissa skipped her morning meal and went straight to the archives. A youngling whose name she couldn’t remember greeted her.

“Can I help you?” the human male asked politely.

He looked to be roughly three or four years younger than her own fourteen.

It was the first time he’d ever spoken to her, and it surprised Harissa a bit. He’d always seemed shy, and from what she’d seen, had difficulty talking to others.

“No, I don’t think so,” was her automatic reply, but she realized it wasn’t quite true. He couldn’t help her with her... whatever it was that killed those in authority over her, but—

“I mean, yes. I’m trying to find information about Jedi Master Ima-Gun Di. He’s decided to take me as his Padawan, and I have to find a way to make sure he doesn’t.”

The boy gave her a very strange look. “Make sure he doesn’t?” he asked, as though he couldn’t believe his ears.

Harissa felt a tingling sensation in her mind, and the boy’s face blushed scarlet.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasped, obviously mortified. “I— When I’m surprised—”

Harissa stared at him.

Fear meets Embarrassment.

What was he apologizing about?

“Runaway telepathy,” the poor kid muttered, turning away. “Don’t worry, I didn’t see much.”

Oh.

So that’s what the tingling had been.

“So you see why I have to convince him to not take me,” Harissa tossed back.

The kid’s head jerked around again, and he studied her with large, dark eyes. “Is it true? Your thoughts?”

“Which ones?” Harissa asked, just a bit wary now.

“That people around you die.” His voice was sober, his embarrassment fading away.

It seemed drawn by some inexorable tractor beam to become Harissa’s own.

She hastened to set the record straight. “Only adults,” she said. Then added, as an afterthought, “And only those who teach me. And Master Onna— my second Clan Mother— is still alive, so it’s not an absolute pattern, but five out of six is bad enough—”

He stared at her in horror.

“I didn’t kill them,” she protested, feeling somewhat attacked. “At least, I didn’t— do— you believe in curses?”

His expression only grew more weird. “Jedi are not slaves to superstition—”

Huh. Even a ten-year-old kid had that one figured out.

So had Harissa.

At least, in theory.

“Okay, how about fate and destiny?”

The kid wavered. “That’s... more complicated.”

“Exactly. Everyone tells me it’s nothing to worry about. That it just... happened this way. But they also tell me there’s no such thing as chance, or bad luck, and that nothing happens by accident. If it’s not a curse, it’s fate!”

The kid blinked and raised an eyebrow. “What happens to them?” he asked, curiosity blazing through the carefully-taught courtesy.

She should have expected the question, but it made her gut twist into an even more complicated knot.

What had happened.

“Different things each time. I— don’t— really want to talk about it,” she said, trying to keep the haunted look out of her eyes. Too many images burned in her mind, keeping her awake at night when she should be sleeping...

“Over here.”

“What?”

“The computer bank.” The kid turned and walked towards it. “I’ll help you.”

“Thanks,” she returned, trailing after him.

“My name is Defo, by the way. Yours?”

“Padawan Harissa Nol,” she returned by rote.

“And this Master you’re looking for?”

“Ima-Gun Di.”

Defo worked for a few moments, then nodded to the image that flashed on screen. Two heads leaned in close, the strange light playing games with shadows across their faces.

He was tall, a male Nikto, dressed in traditional Jedi robes, and carrying a blue lightsaber.

“Datapad,” Defo prompted.

Harissa handed it over.

“He’s been a Master for several years and has never taken on a Padawan before,” Defo summarized as he transferred the complete files for her to peruse later. “He’s been assigned to the defense of New Draxis.”

“New Draxis.” She’d first heard the name less than an hour ago with Master Yoda.

“I put information about it on there,” Defo nodded to the datapad. “Madame Nu says it’s better to be over-prepared than desperately wishing you knew more. Oh. Here’s a picture of your Clone Captain. Not that... he’s really any different from all the others.”

Harissa studied the image anyway. Same face, all right. Same dark, steady eyes. Same rigid, soldier stance. White armor covered in dark brown designs, helmet marked with the same color, the pattern vaguely reminiscent of his General’s head. He had a design either shaved or tattooed into his skull. From the picture, Harissa couldn’t tell which.

Clone Captain 4982.

Underneath, in parenthesis, came two words that made Harissa pause.

_Captain Keeli._

He had a name?

What meaning did a name hold when there were millions of others _exactly_ like you? Did he even have the mental capacity to ponder the question? It wasn’t exactly a secret that the Kaminoans who’d created these soldiers had tampered with their brains.

As Harissa stared into eyes that couldn’t see her, she shivered.

Unless she could find a way to prevent this, she was going to be meeting him very soon.

“What exactly do you think would make Master Yoda change his mind?” Defo asked, breaking into Harissa’s reverie.

She felt hopelessness well within. “Probably nothing,” she admitted. “He says I don’t want to be a knight because I’m afraid.”

“Is it unreasonable to be afraid when you have such a long history of tragedy to your name?” Defo asked.

Harissa threw him a look of surprised gratitude.

Finally, someone who _got_ it.

Something clicked in her mind and she realized that Defo had transformed before her eyes. The shy boy who had difficulty speaking with others seemed able to communicate just fine with her.

In a way, he understood her like no one else she’d ever met had.

He wasn’t training to become a knight who went out on missions. He was here, in the archives, training with Jedi who specialized in knowledge, focused on tending the largest library in the galaxy. No one was telling him he just had to face his fear. His future was important, crucial, vital to the knights who went out on missions.

Mission-oriented knights always treated Archival Jedi with utmost respect.

Who dared talk back to Jocasta Nu, after all?

_Master Yoda said I’m not convinced another path is right_.

That was the key. Oh, thank the Force, that was the key!

No one would harass Defo, because he was confident _this_ was where he belonged. Confident in a quiet, thoughtful, _considered_ way. He wasn’t running _from_ something, but _to_ something.

“We have find what I’m good at doing, and prove that’s where I’m supposed to be,” Harissa concluded. The _we_ was unconscious, and since Defo didn’t object to it, Harissa didn’t realize she’d used it. “We have to prove to Master Yoda I’m much more useful there than out in the field of battle.”

Defo was nodding. “Like me, being here in the archives.”

“Exactly like.” Hope, something Harissa hadn’t felt in years, surged through her.

“Well, then,” Defo said, digging into the computer once again. “Here’s a compilation of current Jedi lifestyles.”

Harissa considered the list as it transferred to her datapad.

Golden options, glittering with potential and promise.

Often Jedi came to these divisions _after_ they’d been knighted, having earned their status in the mission-taking pool. Sometimes the specialized Jedi took apprentices of their own.

Harissa didn’t need a different-focused Master. She needed autonomy.

_I have to find a place where I can gain experience and knowledge so I can pass my trials... but without someone taking responsibility for me._

And the safer the environment, the less likely the adults helping would fall prey to the pattern. Clan Mother Onna had survived so far, after all.

Not all Jedi were meant to set out to solve disputes. Go toe-to-toe with bounty hunters, tyrants, and scheming politicians.

“Since you’ve been a Padawan before, your youngling studies are over,” Defo guessed. “You have a lot of free time.”

Harissa nodded. And _now_ she had something specific to _do_ with that free time. Something that might change the course of her future into a positive direction. _Maybe I can shape my destiny after all._

“We can figure out how much time you should spend with each group. You can assist the Jedi doing these things and try them out. They’ll be happy to have you help, probably.” Defo practically beamed.

Harissa looked over at him and felt a cautious upward curve to her lip.

It had been a long time since she’d last smiled.

It felt good.

“You’re going to make a fabulous Jedi,” she said, and meant every word. His compassion, his care for her, though a stranger, spoke volumes as to his character.

Defo blushed again, and Harissa felt the tingle in her brain once more. It almost instantly vanished.

“Sorry.”

At this point, a little accidental privacy invasion couldn’t dampen her mood. His example, his mere existence had given her hope.

Hope was worth a little inconvenience.

“Thank you, Youngling Defo,” she said, bowing to him.

A smile spread across the kid’s face. He’d obviously expected her to consider him rude for the telepathic intrusions. He bowed back, the gesture perfect in its precision. “You’re welcome, Padawan Nol.”

As Harissa made her way out of the library, she realized that the gentle blue glow all around her no longer felt ominous. It felt like the song of opportunity.

She opened her mind to the Force as she walked the halls to her room.

Outside, difficulty might rage. Emotions might cloud and burn, and fear might sweep unchecked.

But here... the Force was gentle. Thousands of Jedi were careful to keep it this way. They left the contention outside, creating a place of safety, of peace, of beauty. A place of rest.

They couldn’t control the galaxy. They couldn’t enforce that peace on unwilling minds.

But they _could_ make one place, by mutual consent, a haven.

She could sense the kinship between the brown-robed figures moving around her. They didn’t need to speak. They were all connected. Part of a greater whole.

A family.

 

* * *

 

Half a galaxy away, another sort of family was struggling to survive.

“Medic!” came the call, and the Clone Captain was aware of Bandage rushing past him.

He could hear the vibrations of his General’s lightsaber as it ate through droid after droid. Blasters lit the murk of nightfall in a way he imagined a Horror House would be like. He’d once heard a Rodian speak of them— some form of civilian amusement facility structured around fear being enjoyable.

Civilians were impossible to comprehend.

“Hold the line!” His voice was raised almost as loud as it could go in order to be heard over the crashing, the screaming, the cannon blasts.

Taking cover behind a boulder, he activated his comlink. “General, the men are doing their best, but we can’t keep this up!”

“Captain Keeli. If we lose this pass, there’s nothing to stop the droids from sacking Beltu.”

“We’re getting massacred, General. There’s just too many of them.”

“Can you evacuate Beltu using the gunships?”

“We can try.”

“Do it, Captain, and you may begin strategic retreat.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Keeli bolted from behind the boulder, back into the thick of it. The gunships were waiting to ferry his brothers out of here, engines hot and pilots focused.

“Level, take some men with you, take the gunships, evacuate Beltu. Get as many people out as you can.”

“Captain!” Keeli turned to see Brains, waving a datapad in one hand, blaster pistol in the other. “Found an option. The Beltun can’t evacuate because of the flooding, right? By my calculations, if we blow a hole right _here,_ ” He shoved the datapad close enough for Keeli to make out the sides of the mountain pass, “It should drain the water enough that they can mobilize their _own_ evacuation.”

“Will it drain in time?” Keeli demanded.

Brains looked him square in the eye. “Yes.”

Hope sparked in Keeli’s soul. Maybe he could still save his men.

“General!” he barked into his comlink. “New option.”

His Jedi didn’t think twice before approving the action.

It was just one reason, out of countless hundreds, why Keeli trusted his General.

Target soon reported in; he’d made short work of the obstructing water. The Beltun were on the move.

“Fall back to the gunships!”

Methodically, keeping together, carrying away the wounded with them, his brothers retreated.

“We need to buy the Beltun time to retreat,” Keeli reported, finding himself in the same ship as the General.

“The gunships can’t stand against their tanks,” Ima-Gun pointed out. “It would be a slaughter. But if we can drop enough of the pass, perhaps we can slow the droids enough for us to leave.”

“Got that, Target?” Keeli demanded into his helmet’s comlink.

“Oh, we got it,” Target roared back, sounding ridiculously happy.  
“Take that mountain _down_ , boys!”

The sound of rock splitting somehow managed to pierce even the Separatist tanks’ pounding and the blaze of their own gunships’ engines.

“Report,” Ima-Gun ordered.

Cheering burst into Keeli’s ears from the comm. “We got ’em, General! It’ll take ’em _days_ to dig through _that_ rockslide.”

“All pilots, this is General Di. Time to go back to base. Craze, alert Nortu that Beltu has emptied and is headed their way.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Keeli blinked, realizing he could no longer hear the Separatists’ barrage. Blessed silence.

Not that the gunship was anywhere near _quiet_ , of course. Its engines, the moans of the wounded, the murmur of the brothers tending to them.

Exhaustion slammed into him as the adrenaline that had kept him going for hours ran out.

_How many did we lose?_ he wondered, his throat tight.

He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. It was a gesture he’d unintentionally picked up from his General. He didn’t know what Di was thinking of when _he_ did it, but Keeli pictured to himself the two hundred inhabitants of Beltu.

Yes. They were scared. Yes. They were displaced.

But they were _alive_.

And they might even have homes to return to once this was all over.

That made the horror of today worth it.

“You are wounded, Captain.”

Di’s voice brought him back to the present. Keeli pulled his helmet from his head. “I am?”

Di’s gaze settled on Keeli’s side.

The clone wasn’t sure how it had happened, but blood stained the white armor, and now he could feel pain. He’d missed it before— there’d been too much going on.

Bandage was at his side in an instant.

That man had the keen hearing of some flying predator.

_How does he do it?_

“Captain. Let’s have a look at that.”

He’d been walking around with it who knew how long, and he was still standing. “There’s others hurt far worse than me. Take care of them first.”

“I have.”

Keeli blinked, realizing the gunships were setting down. His moment of contemplating the Beltun must have been longer than he realized. Much longer.

_Did I pass out?_

If he had, his hand had kept a tight enough grip on the overhead handles to keep him from falling down. Considering how stiff it felt and how hard it was to uncurl his fingers, maybe just that had happened.

All he wanted to do was find his bunk and sleep.

He even tried it.

Somehow, Bandage was there, helping him out of his armor.

And this _wasn’t_ his bunk, but the medstation.

Sitting on the sickbed, Keeli realized he was hungry. Famished, actually. A couple of injectors left him feeling a bit less woozy and dulled the throbbing in his side, but did nothing to still the hunger.

Wound bandaged and on his way to the mess, Keeli received various reports.

Gunships lost.

Weapons lost.

Estimated droid casualties.

Exact number of brothers lost.

That last was the hardest to hear, and yet it was smaller than Keeli had anticipated. The fact that things hadn’t been as bad as they’d appeared lifted his spirits, while at the same time the loss of his slaughtered brethren sank them to his boots. It was a familiar conflict to the Captain.

As the door to the mess slid open, another emotion added itself to the tangle.

Pride.

His men sat at the tables, some wounded, others tired but unscathed, all having lost brothers today.

Yet here they were. They moved on. They continued the struggle to protect the innocent bystanders that the droids targeted. They fought their best.

In a sea of identical faces, there was one different.

Ima-Gun stood in the center of the mess and called, “Listen up, men.”

Conversations stilled and heads turned to look at him.

“You did well today. All of you. But it’s only right to mention that Brains saved all our skins back there. The gunships would never have had the time to rescue the villagers and us too. Remember the fallen, celebrate the living. And thank you, Brains.”

Cheers and applause broke out across the room.

Keeli spotted the one clone who didn’t seem to be pleased by the notice— Brains himself. Clearly embarrassed, he waved his hand. “Anybody could have done it.”

And of course, nobody paid his words any heed.

Keeli felt someone’s gaze on him and looked over to see Ima-Gun’s stare. The Jedi nodded his head, and Keeli worked his way through the once-again-eating group to join him.

“Captain. How are you feeling?”

“I’ll live.” Keeli tried not to look at the food all around, but his stomach growled in spite of his efforts.

Ima-Gun smiled at the noise. “I’m hungry too. Come. We can eat and talk.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Keeli certainly didn’t need permission given twice.

Army rations might not be the best thing he’d ever tasted, but it sated the hunger and eased a little of the exhaustion.

“Things are going to change soon, and I think you have a right to know ahead of time. There’s a shortage of Masters to train Padawans at the moment, and Master Yoda brought a Padawan in need to my attention.”

“You’re taking a Padawan, Sir?”

“Yes. Her name is Harissa Nol, she’s a fourteen-year-old human female.”

Keeli sat at the closest empty table. “Are you sure you want to bring a child into this? The battles here are brutal. Unforgiving.”

Best case scenario, the kid would end up with nightmares and grow up fast. Worst case? She would either die herself or unintentionally get someone else killed.

It just wasn’t right to send children into combat.

“She’s older than you are.”

Ima-Gun’s statement startled Keeli. He hadn’t actually thought about it like _that_ before. He’d only been alive for eleven standard years, true, but with his growth acceleration and training, he was far from a child.

_I know too much. I’ve seen too much. I’ve lost too much._

But his General might have a point.

Keeli and his brothers weren’t judged by years lived. Maybe Jedi children couldn’t be judged that way either. “This is what you want to do, Sir?”

“She needs a teacher, and no one wants her. I don’t want her to go without if I can help it. Speak your mind, Captain. I value your concerns.”

“I would no longer be your second in command,” Keeli observed. “She would outrank me. Be my Commander.”

“That’s right.”

“She would have first claim on your time, instead of us.”

“I will never neglect your brothers, Captain. You have my word.”

“Understood, General. Thank you for telling me.” It wasn’t what he would have picked, but he wasn’t the one to do the choosing. “How do you wish me to proceed?”

“You may tell the men however you see fit. I’m going to be visiting some of the other Outer Rim commands this week, ending with picking her up on Coruscant, and coming straight back here. You’ll be on your own between now and then.”

Keeli held his head up. “You won’t regret it, General. The boys and I can handle it.”

“I know you can.” Ima-Gun’s eyes turned warm with pride. “I leave New Draxis in good hands.”

Keeli wasn’t concerned about any of the hands present.

It was the two _new_ ones that would be arriving soon that bothered him.

The ones coming between the 337 th Battalion and their General.

What would happen to the bond between Jedi and clone when the Jedi had one of his own to take care of?

_He promised,_ Keeli reminded himself.  _He’s not replacing us._

Too bad that didn’t make him feel better. 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Harissa’s room was small, rectangular, with a typical sliding door. There was a low mattress, a floor mat for meditation, and a small trunk against one wall.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she dug into Defo’s list.

Some of this she already knew, having learned it in various classes. You had the regular mass of Jedi, and then you had the Service Corps. Of the four divisions of Service, she already knew which two she _didn’t_ want.

Medical and Exploration. They might have sounded benign, but Harissa remembered her history lessons with a suppressed shudder. Plague-struck planets, hunting down twisted Sith artifacts...

The ExplorCorps death rate was even higher than that of the regular Jedi.

Next in line was AgriCorps.

Yoda seemed convinced she didn’t have the resonance with plants needed to join Agricultural.

She glanced at at the bottom of the list, at the odds and ends that didn’t fit anywhere neatly. Instead of being run by one of the Corps, they were arranged by committees of volunteers.

Kitchen duties and Temple cleaning and management were handled by knights on furlough. They were taken on by Jedi who had already passed their trials who wanted to help, and they rotated each other out. Time in the Temple, time on missions....

They were practically knights and masters who had specialized skill sets and the desire to use them regularly.

Half of the teachers who staffed the youngling classes were the same way.

Temple guards?

Again, already knighted volunteers.

Harissa’s eyebrow arched up as she saw another category.

Jedi who no longer took missions because they had grown too old or too injured, and other permanent patients.

Jedi who had come up against diseases or forces too strong for them.

Some of those had lost their minds.

Harissa suppressed a shiver as she skipped over the concept.

No. She didn’t belong with any of them. Not right now, anyway.

Hopefully, she never  _would._

How dangerous would it be to seek out Force-sensitive babies to bring to the Temple? Finders might technically be part of ExplorCorps, but it wasn’t the same as tearing off into unknown space to uncover ancient evils.

That  _is_ where a lot of the mentally-destroyed Jedi met their fates.

_Maybe AgriCorps. Maybe I’m better with plants than Master Yoda thinks. Or Maybe I could be a Finder._

She wondered if she could work her way towards knighthood in the kitchen without anyone noticing her Masterless state.

Not likely.

Padawans were welcome to lend time and effort to various endeavors, as long as they had free time and weren’t needed by their Masters.

_Masters_ being the key component there.

For her to volunteer for anything long-term, she’d need to have completed her training first.

The only category left was EduCorps.

Youngling raising and training, historians, translators, librarians, consultants, the disposal of dangerous artifacts and the protection of positive ones, caring for ancient temples...

_I could live in one of the abandoned temples on a neglected planet. Safe from hurting anyone, safe from_ being  _hurt..._

And she’d have to be a knight first.

Why did knighthood require a Master to achieve?

_Why can’t we have an academy? Many students to a teacher? Why does it have to be one-on-one?_

Harissa tossed the datapad onto the carefully-tucked blanket.

Nothing called to her.

Well, that curator for a lonely Force-powerful site was pretty attractive, but...

Nothing solid.

The request to remain Masterless had apparently been too much to ask. She hadn’t been able to find a single instance of it. Ever. And Yoda clearly wasn’t going to make her case the exception.

Her hopes that if she found a Jedi who lived away from danger to teach her,  _maybe_ she could keep it alive, were naive.

Three of the five she’d lost so far hadn’t been to violence.

A heart failure.

A chronic illness turned lethal by a medication mix-up.

An out-of-control speeder, within sight of home while leading a field trip of four-year-olds to the park.

_Nowhere_ was safe. It wasn’t the danger level of the setting that was at issue.

_It’s me._

She wasn’t sure where her hope had gone.

Probably had joined the ashes of her losses.

She eyed the list again.

In any of these fields, she’d be expected to bond with a Master, or come already knighted.

With one exception.

Clan Mothers didn’t take Padawans. They had a gaggle of little ones to look after.

Maybe it wasn’t time to give up hope, just yet.

Harissa stood, only to hear her stomach grumble. She glanced at the chrono. Couldn’t quite believe how much time had passed.

She tapped the door’s release and stepped out of her room.

It was quite a hike to reach the dining hall. A home that could comfortably hold all ten thousand family members at times felt more like its own little city than a house. The familiar smells swept over her as she reached her destination.

Countless tables and a low murmur of discussion; cheerful banter from the kitchen hidden behind a counter and a wall; and a sense of relaxation and fun.

It felt sparse today, a usual state of things since the Clone War’s beginning a year and a half ago. Most of the diners were younglings and their Clan Mothers.

Retrieving her meal, Harissa scanned the room.

It was more from habit than anything else.

Her own clan mates were off on adventures with their Masters.

_I’m the only one left._

She recognized Defo, and the urge to go join him hit, and for a full half second she considered it.

Her enthusiasm bled away as she watched him laugh with his friends. Given their ages and the level of togetherness that whispered around them in the Force, they were probably his clan mates.

Harissa sighed and made up her mind. She chose a table close to the exit, and left as soon as she was done wolfing down her food.

Pretending life was normal and safe again wouldn’t help her find a solution to her problem.

Only  _action_ would.

_I will not get distracted._

It had been years since Harissa had walked through the younglings’ area of the Temple, but it was as beautiful as she remembered.

The whole pyramidal home was peaceful, but these halls and rooms were something more. Flocks of children were herded along towards classes or the gardens. Kids anywhere between four and eight years old— or the alien equivalent— threw her curious glances as she passed.

Harissa worked her way through the maze, deeper into the children’s domain.

She left the happy chatter behind and pushed forward into new sounds.

Baby sounds.

Crying. Delighted giggles. Phonemes that would someday turn into words.

The quiet laughter of the Jedi tending them. Gentle shushings or lullabies trying to calm the infants in tears.

_Do I belong here?_

Harissa didn’t know.

But it was hard to imagine a safer environment.

Long rooms branched off her hallway, many with their doors open. Picking one that seemed quiet, she peered inside. Her eyes confirmed that the babies slept.

She crept forward among the cribs.

Fourteen little flames in the Force.

Fourteen little bundles of potential, waiting to be discovered.

Twi’lek, human, Pauan, Zabrak, and several species she wasn’t sure of, all slumbering in gentle serenity.

The calm pulled at her, urged her to just sit and bask in it.

Life was so strong here. The Force seemed to glow with the promise of tomorrow.

Taking a deep breath, she moved back towards the hallway to reach the four rooms near the door.

The first two to her left and right were closed off, possibly containing sleeping chambers. The second door on her left was open, and led into a storeroom with clean sheets, tiny tunics, bottles, a computer terminal— probably with access to everything known about every species known— and a tiny kitchenette. A place to warm up baby food, as well as caretaker food. Another door inside probably led to a refresher unit.

The second area to her right didn’t have a door at all.

It was in there that Harissa found the Clan Mothers.

A middle-aged male Zabrak sat back in a reclining chair, a human baby cradled in one heavily-muscled arm, a half-full baby bottle in the other hand.

The child didn’t notice Harissa’s arrival, it was too busy eating. The other occupant of the room, a young female Mikkian, also leaned back in a chair, only she was definitely asleep, with her feet drawn up on the cushion beside her.

The Zabrak made eye-contact, then nodded to the Mikkian. Standing, he walked out of the room and led Harissa back to the main hallway.

It was a little bit overwhelming for Harissa. So many nursery rooms branched off of this one, long hall. How many dozens of children lived here?

And this was just one of the main drags through this area of the Temple.

“How can I help you?” the Zabrak asked, his voice quiet.

He was tall enough that Harissa could look up at him. That was a relief.

“I have a couple of free days, and I wanted to help out somehow. I didn’t know who to see to ask about it.”

“Ah,” he said, his eyeridges arching. “Well. I have no doubt that there are others who can use you, but if you were willing to help us, we’d be grateful. Kiplec is recovering from a severe illness. She’s still pretty weak and tires easily.”

Harissa repressed her instinctive shiver and hoped her eyes hadn’t glazed over. Memories lurched towards the surface of her mind. Hoping to cut them off at the knees, Harissa plastered a smile on her face and rushed to say, “Sure. I’ll help. Just tell me where to start.”

“I am Jedi Master Keren Veth, and you’ve seen Jedi Knight Kiplec. You are?”

“Padawan Harissa Nol. Currently Masterless and missionless.”

Keren gave her a nod. “Alright, then. I want to let Kiplec sleep as long as possible, but we’re going to have little ones waking up hungry soon. Do you know how to feed a baby?”

Harissa shook her head.

Keren knelt on the floor beside the wall, gestured for her to sit beside him. “You need to cradle his head with one arm or a hand. Always support the head. His neck muscles aren’t strong enough yet to hold it on his own. I’m going to set him on your lap. Yes. Just like that. Easy— there. Good job.”

Harissa found herself cradling a tiny life. Perfectly-formed brown eyes blinked up at her. For a split standard second, all was well. And then the tiny nose scrunched, the mouth opened to reveal no teeth whatsoever, and tears blurred the brown of his eyes.

Harissa looked to Keren in alarm. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” he assured her. “He can’t talk yet, and he’s not telepathic or telempathic. The only way he can tell you something’s wrong is by crying. He’s still hungry. Here.”

Harissa took the bottle from him.

“Tilt it upside-down. Make sure there’s no air near the tip; you don’t want him swallowing it. Trust me. Exactly like that. Excellent.”

Harissa poked the tip of the bottle into the kid’s open mouth.

The wailing silenced as the baby realized there was something better to do.

Exhaling in cautious relief, Harissa leaned back against the wall.

Keren patted her on the knee. “I’m going to go ready the formulas. Different species need different things. When he’s done, just come and get me. I’ll show you how to burp him.”

Harissa watched him go in bewilderment.

Burp the baby?

What in _blazes_ did he mean?

“How do I know when he’s done?” she whispered, but the massive Zabrak was already around the corner and in his little kingdom again.

Looking down at the tiny Jedi in her arms, Harissa hoped the answer would be obvious.

And quiet.

A hundred meters down the hall, she could see someone walking, lightly bouncing a child who sounded inconsolable.

How could anyone _sleep_ here?

And... would Harissa grow accustomed to the openness of this place, or would it drive her crazy?

_If it doesn’t attract me, Master Yoda is likely to sense it._

The baby she held let go of the bottle and turned his head away, his tiny fingers curled into fists.

“Does that mean you’re done?”

He rolled his head against her arm and yawned.

Harissa waved the tip of the bottle near his face, but he didn’t seem interested.

So, given the indicators, Harissa made the executive decision that he was done.

It was a little tricky to stand up while still keeping firm hold on baby and bottle, but she figured it out.

She peered into the storeroom, then the sitting area. Not finding Keren, she continued in to the cribs. She found the Zabrak removing a soiled diaper from a miniature Pauan, and folding a clean one on. Buttoning the little tunic between the kid’s legs, the Zabrak reached towards a shelf on the end wall and called a cube with rounded corners to his hand.

Giving the toy to the baby, he moved on.

Curious, Harissa eyed it. It had different textures on each face, and in the Force, she could sense possibility.

A memory, long since passed by, whispered in her mind.

Using the Force to press the internal mechanism, allowing it to open.

It wasn’t a holocron, but it had helped her learn that there was more to things than what she could see and touch. And taste.

The kid was wrapping his toes around the block.

_And... apparently, more than even toes can discern._

Babies were weird.

Harissa found herself relaxing. For once, remembering wasn’t a painful thing.

“Jax had enough?” Keren asked, already half-way done with the next diaper change.

He was _fast_.

“I think so.”

“Then set the bottle down, take the towel at the end of the crib there, and put it over your shoulder.”

Harissa obeyed, leaving the bottle on the floor, and awkwardly draping the towel that had hung on the Pauan’s crib over her right shoulder.

“Now hold him so Jax’s stomach is against your chest, and his head is against your shoulder. One arm under his bottom, and gently pat his back with your other hand. You can bounce up and down a little, if you want.” A third dirty diaper joined the small stack on the floor.

Someone started crying behind her. Harissa turned to try to locate the voice.

“I’ve got her.” Keren sped to the storeroom, returned with a bottle. Scooping up the crying baby, he slipped the tip into her mouth.

A little orange Twi’lek.

She looked so _perfect_ , with the tiny fingers and lekku and toes—

A quiet erping noise came from Jax.

Keren looked over at her. “There you go. See if you can set him down now, and I’ll let you take Tepa.”

Harissa headed for one of the empty cribs, but Keren’s voice stayed her. “Other side of the room. Jax is Clan Anooba, just like Tepa.”

Harissa glanced at the cribs lining the wall Keren had been switching diapers along. “And these are?”

“Clan Reek. I’ve been its Clan Mother for over three decades.”

If he’d been _here_ for the last thirty years...

That meant he hadn’t been out in the middle of disaster.

“How many sets of younglings have you raised?” Harissa switched sides of the room and carefully lowered Jax into his crib. He didn’t seem to take exception. Glancing up, Harissa found the stack of cubes perched on the shelf at the end wall. Unsure whether Keren would approve of her using the Force when she could walk, she used her feet and hands to go retrieve one and place it in within reach of Jax’s eager fingers.

Harissa could sense Keren’s approval of her initiative.

He handed her the orange Twi’lek and bottle.

“I’ve taken three groups of younglings from the moment they arrived at the Temple and tended them for the first ten years of their lives. They moved on into regular quarters and classes on their own for a couple years, and from there they were taken as Padawans and spent the next ten years with their Masters. Some have Padawans of their own now.”

Harissa could see them in her mind’s eye, several generations of Clan Reek. Knights, Padawans, younglings. If he had a new set now, that meant that somewhere out there in the main areas of the Temple, ten- to twelve-year-olds were hard at work at their lessons, or maybe playing. They were also Clan Reek, even if they didn’t come into these areas anymore.

“And Kiplec?”

Keren dropped another diaper on the pile, skipped one crib, and started on another. “This is her first. We’ve never had a Clan Anooba before, but in recent years we’ve been finding an increase in Force-sensitives, so some new clans were formed. Even with that, we’re hard pressed. In my experience, the best clan-size is somewhere between five and six. Eight is pushing it. Each child receives less one-on-one attention than I would prefer.”

Well, that was good news in its own way. They needed more help. Maybe they _could_ convince Yoda to let her serve out the remainder of her training here. How dangerous could that be?

“How many clans are there?” Jax started crying, distracting Harissa from her research. “What’s wrong with him?”

Keren came, balancing the stack of dirty diapers on one arm. He studied Jax for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Harissa stared at him in shock. _Not_ know? He’d been raising babies for _thirty years_ — he’d raised at least, well, five times three was fifteen, so he’d raised _at least_ fifteen babies, and somehow he _didn’t know_ what this one wanted?

Keren laughed at her disbelief. “I’m going to go throw these out. You can put Tepa back, she seems pretty done anyway. See if you can help Jax.”

“How?” Harissa pleaded to his back as he left, but he didn’t answer.

Depositing Tepa in her bed, Harissa leaned over Jax. She picked up the cube and waved it in his face, but he would _not_ accept her offering.

Tepa started sniffling behind Harissa.

And then someone on the other side of the room started.

_Seriously?_

“Shhh, shhh,” she pleaded with them. “Kiplec is trying to sleep. Come on, guys. Let’s not do this—”

Another voice joined the ruckus.

Harissa scooped Jax up in her arms and mimicked the Jedi she’d seen down the hall. She walked and bounced him up and down.

Training kicked into play.

“Just think for a second. Think about possibilities. No one has to get hurt today. We can all walk away from this. Just tone it down. Just a little—”

“Hostage negotiation, or talking terrorists away from explosives?”

Harissa spun to face the new voice with the gentle lilt.

It belonged to the blue Mikkian she’d seen earlier.

“Master Kiplec, I’m sorry. I was trying to keep them from waking you—”

She received a dazzling smile. “It’s alright. Though I’m fairly sure you weren’t here before I fell asleep.”

“This is Padawan Nol, and she’s here to help us out.” Keren returned from the storeroom.

And then all was chaos.

Blankets were spread on the floor and babies pulled out of cribs. They were held, cuddled, bounced, fed, changed. Harissa found herself sitting on the floor, showing tiny minds how to unlock cubes. The way the toys folded outwards on themselves, changing shape again and again and again mesmerized three of the infants. They wanted to touch, with hands and feet, and taste, and shake the cubes for themselves.

There was some definite confusion when the cubes wouldn’t keep changing against the various physical input inflicted.

Harissa let her eyes fall shut, and touched each little mind. A careful, obvious gesture.

One by one, each sparkling glow pushed back.

Keeping firmly in contact, Harissa manipulated one cube, causing it to float.

Tiny eyes tracked its progress. Tiny minds observed how _her_ mind was moving.

Letting the object sink back to the floor, Harissa smiled, knowing they could see it. “Now you try,” she murmured.

Little hands stretch for the cube, mirroring their minds’ efforts.

Nothing happened.

They were valiant tries, but the exercise soon tired them.

So Harissa picked up the cubes with her hands and carefully placed them in tiny fingers. “Good effort,” she praised.

She became aware of her back feeling very stiff, and she leaned her head to either side to try to stretch out her neck. Her backside was sore, and she was _really_ tired. As tired as if she’d spent a morning in saber practice.

It was also quiet except for the gentle happy noises some of the kids were making.

When did that happen?

And... she was really hungry.

One of her charges had fallen asleep, cube clutched close. The other two looked on the verge of following suit.

Blue hands reached down and lifted the sleeping infant, placing it back in its more comfortable bed.

“How about you and Keren go get something for us to eat?” Kiplec suggested. “I’m a bit tired of our improvising— sorry, Keren— and I think everybody’s quiet enough for now.”

Keren gave her a nod and reached out a hand to help pull Harissa to her feet.

She gladly took the outstretched offer of assistance.

It was also a relief to walk out of that room, down the long hallway, and into a turbolift.

“Is it like that every day?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“Some days are quieter than others. Some days it’s louder. And only some of them sleep through the night, you understand. All in all, this has been a very decent day.”

Here in the lift, Harissa couldn’t hear _any_ baby noises at _all_. That was another relief.

She had only the vaguest of impressions about her own infancy. Most of the actual memories were from a few years later. Playing in the gardens. Very basic lightsaber practice. Language learning. Field trips through the Temple.

Force, it had taken them years to learn the basic layout of their home. Plenty of the lower levels Harissa had never even visited, and she’d lived here all her life.

“What is your favorite age?” she asked, remembering the trouble she and her clanmates used to get into. These little ones might be demanding, but at least they couldn’t wander off.

“Every stage is different,” Keren said, leading her out of the turbolift and down another hallway to a wide bank of curving stairs. “Each goes by so fast. I enjoy them all, while they last. Each age has its own beauties and difficulties, and each _child_ has different variations on those basic outlines. We try less to guide their growth, and more to uncover who they are as individuals.”

“They’re kind of young, aren’t they? I mean, they haven’t developed personalities yet.”

Keren threw her an amused glance. “Oh, they have their own personalities all right. You’d be surprised how much can be conveyed without saying a single word. I just try to help them learn about themselves, and about the world around them. It’s not up to me to determine where I think these kids should go and groom them for that. Some of them will go into AgriCorps. Become healers. Clan Mothers. Knights. Temple guards. Others will leave the Order altogether. I try to give them as much preparation as I can that will serve them wherever their path takes them. That’s our job. To give them the tools they need to find their own way, and the courage and confidence to seek it out, no matter the obstacles.”

“Do any come back to visit you?” Harissa scanned the Jedi they were passing, and couldn’t help but wonder when was the last time they spoke with _their_ Clan Mothers.

“Some. I enjoy it when they do. Others have never looked back. I keep an ear out for news about them, sometimes I go through reports looking to see how they’re doing.”

It didn’t feel right to Harissa. She’d only seen a sliver of the dedication shown by these nursery Jedi, but she could imagine it multiplied by years and not just taking place during the day, but through sleepless nights as well.

Clan Mothers gave of themselves to the future Jedi in just as clear examples of selflessness as the knights who went out to try to heal a galaxy.

_Maybe more_ , she mused. _Without the Clan Mothers, those knights wouldn’t_ be _going out to help others._

“You invest so much time and care, and, well, _yourselves_ into them. Don’t you miss them if they just forget about you?”

Keren smiled. “They don’t forget, Padawan Nol, but they do move on. Would I prefer to see them every once in a while to hear from their own mouths how they’re doing? Yes. Do I begrudge them their focus elsewhere? No. They’re living their lives. It’s beautiful. I’m glad I got to be part of it.”

Harissa was surprised when Keren walked past the doorway to the eating chamber. “Where are we going?”

“Back way into the kitchen.” Karen threw her a wicked grin. “They never make Clan Mothers wait. We go straight to the front of the line. Tell that to anyone who tries to tell you that nursery Jedi are less important than the mission-taking knights.”

Harissa couldn’t help the shy smile that touched her face in return.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

They ducked through an unmarked doorway and Harissa found herself in the middle of a fragrant bustle.

The murmur of happy discussion and low laughter filled the place, which twisted and turned. The set-up meant that there could be one kitchen, with many possible eating halls, depending on how many Jedi were at home.

Harissa spotted the wide turbolift that led to eating halls both above and below.

She caught sight of at least two Padawans gleefully mixing some form of batter and chopping vegetables. The rest appeared to be knights or masters of varying ages and species.

A Chadra-Fan with gloves, a cap, and a bib to keep his fur out of the food came to meet them. “Master Veth! What can we do for you?”

“Kiplec’s still experiencing difficulty eating. Have anything that might tempt her?”

The short knight grinned, his ears perking. “Of course. Wait right here.” He sped off, disappearing behind the taller Jedi busily at work.

Harissa peered around in awe. It was the first time she’d been back here, and despite the fact that she could only see a fraction of the kitchen, it was nothing like she’d expected. She’d had vague visions of very large food prep units and a handful of Jedi running them.

She hadn’t expected it to look so _alive_. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling. In baskets she could see vegetables harvested from the Temple’s gardens with the dirt still clinging to their skins. Fruit baskets, strangely shaped to prevent the weight of the fruit above from crushing that below sat on counters or on top of barrels.

A light dusting of flour littered the beautiful stones of the floor, and Harissa could see rolls set to rise under a light towel.

This explained why Temple food tasted so good.

The Chadra-Fan returned with a basket, which he pressed into Keren’s hands. “There. I defy her to resist this dinner.”

Keren grinned at him. “Thanks. I’ll let you know how she responds.”

The short Jedi gave Harissa a nod and moved off again, calling directions to the two Padawans.

Harissa followed Keren out, but kept glancing over her shoulder until the door slid shut behind them.

That was when she began to smell the basket.

Her mouth watered.

“Do they know all of you by name?” Harissa wondered aloud, trying to take her mind off the food. “Or is it just a few of you?”

Keren shrugged. “There’s a hundred Clan Mothers, and thirteen supervisors. _I_ know all of us. Not necessarily very well, but by name, face, and reputation, yes.”

Harissa was glad to see that the older Jedi’s pace had quickened— probably in response to the seductive smells wafting from the basket.

It was amusing to see Jedi they passed in the halls catch scent of it and do a double-take, gazes locking onto the basket.

Jedi might use the Force to perceive the world around them, but there was certainly nothing wrong with their sense of smell.

They found Kiplec in the sitting room, setting up a folding table. She smiled up at them. “We have company, so I thought we might as well be a little formal.” She adjusted the light blue tablecloth.

Karen set the basket down on top of it as gently as if it contained a child. “Smell anything that might interest you?”

“Possibly.” Kiplec pulled her chair closer to the table.

Watching Keren unpack the basket, Harissa could only agree with what he’d said earlier.

The kitchen Jedi _did_ pamper nursery Jedi.

It might be worth staying here for the food _alone_.

Keren, seeing her expression, laughed. “Most of the time we’re too busy or tired to go down there, so we cobble together our own meals. Trust me, those are much less exciting.”

Harissa, sinking her teeth into a feathery roll, didn’t take much notice.

The people down there definitely knew how to _cook_.

If only it wasn’t a rotational system...

Swallowing, she remembered something. “Master Veth. You mentioned thirteen supervisors. What do they do?”

“We look after the children; they look after us. If one of us is unable to care for our Clan, one of them steps in. They also help organize multi-Clan outings and events, make sure youngling classes don’t conflict, and keep track of records, Clan Mothers’ mental health, and other things. They keep Master Yoda free so he can interact with the children as well as the rest of the Order. Most were Clan Mothers to begin with themselves.”

“So Padawan Nol.” Kiplec glanced up from her plate. “I think I missed out on some things since I was asleep. What is your story? Are you just curious, or is this an assignment?”

Harissa gave a nod. “I’m trying to figure out if I belong here or in Acquisitions or AgriCorps. I have a few days free, so I thought I’d spend one in each place.”

“Ah. You suspect your talents lie more with nurturing than with mediation?” Kiplec assumed, spearing a fruit slice with her fork.

“I— don’t know. How would I know if I’d make a good Clan Mother?”

Kiplec glanced at Keren.

The Zabrak considered, and then offered, “You need to ask yourself a few questions. Start with: Do I enjoy children? Follow with: Do I enjoy investing in their lives? Demonstrating to them that they are valued, special, and have unlimited potential? Because if that _doesn’t_ seem like the best thing you could possibly do with your life, and you _stay_ , after time you _will_ feel trapped here. At that point, it would be very difficult for you to be a good Clan Mother. It would be possible, through sheer force of will, but it would be miserable, and you would likely be of more use elsewhere in the Order.”

Harissa’s gaze sought her plate.

There had been moments where she enjoyed working with the little ones. Where the connection was magical and like staring life straight in the eyes.

But... children _weren’t_ what she wanted most. She hadn’t dreamed of caring for them. This wasn’t what she wanted to grow up to do. And the relief she’d felt as she left suggested where she might end up if she tried to force the match.

_I don’t belong here._

And she didn’t want to pretend to.

“It’s possible to enjoy something even if it’s not your path.” Kiplec’s gentle voice broke into Harissa’s thoughts. “Sometimes taking a break from one’s own work to help someone else with theirs is just what the soul needs.”

Harissa nodded and met her gaze. “I think that’s what working with the little ones is for me.”

“You’ll find your place.” There was no hint of doubt in Kiplec’s voice.

Harissa’s soul reached out for it. Clung to her confidence.

If only she could believe that for herself. But in this moment, it was enough to know someone else believed it for her.

“If you still want to see about Acquisition, I can introduce you Jex’s Finder.” Keren handed Harissa half a meiloorun.

“Yes, please,” she said, accepting the fruit.

“Word is he’s going to be back late tonight. I’ll contact him, ask to meet with him tomorrow morning. How does that sound?”

“It sounds wonderful.” All was _not_ lost.

Dinner over, Harissa took her leave of the Clan Mothers.

She also hung for a moment over Jax’s crib. He was sleeping like he hadn’t a trouble in the galaxy.

_And maybe you don’t. You’re certainly in good hands._

She couldn’t help but wonder what he’d grow up to be and do.

It was hard to stifle her yawns on the trek back to her room. Her feet dragged slower, slower.

It had been a crazy day.

When she shut her door and dropped onto her bed, she fell asleep almost instantly.

 

* * *

 

Harissa was up before she needed to be, but her sense of urgency wouldn’t allow her to sleep one last hour.

To fill up her time, she went for breakfast in one of the halls. She eyed the counter that separated eating area from kitchen and marveled at how little could be seen from here.

_It must be one of the arms branching out._

So many things about this place were just waiting to be discovered.

Would she ever discover them all? It wasn’t likely.

Meal consumed, she found her way back up to the infant quarters.

Keren met her with a smile. Instead of leading her back out the way she’d come, he took her deeper down that long hall.

Glancing into the rooms branching out to either side, Harissa saw Jedi with children, anywhere in age from newborn to two years old.

This place felt so foreign, even though she herself had spent the first two years of her life here.

Around the age of three, they’d been moved from the nursery area to the youngling dorms. Most of Harissa’s early memories were linked to that place. Little alcoves for beds branching off a central room, her Clan Mother just down the hall.

Turning down a side corridor, they found themselves in a silent hallway that looked like it belonged back in the regular Jedi sleeping quarters.

As they approached, one of the doors slid open, and a human male stepped out.

Pale skinned, clean-shaven, average human height, keen green eyes, perhaps forty standard years old. His red hair was long and worn pulled back. Bound in a tail for several centimeters by thin strips of fabric, it may have been contained, but the ends hung free and just a little bit scraggly.

“Zarrus.”

“Keren.” The human looked tired, and Harissa almost felt bad for bothering him. But he met her gaze with a smile. “I assume this is the Padawan who’s curious about what Finders do?”

“I’ll let the two of you get to it.” Keren gave Harissa a nod as he turned to go. “Feel free to visit us any time, Harissa. We like visits. We’ll bribe you with food if it helps.”

She gave him a tiny smile, one she actually felt. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back sometime.”

As Keren headed back down the hall, Zarrus stretched, stifling a yawn. “Sorry. It’s been a long week. So. Who’s your Finder?”

“Wenna Ziex. Long dead.”

“Ah. She was a neat individual. She taught me a lot. Do you miss her?”

Harissa shrugged, feeling awkward. “I didn’t really know her. I was too little.”

Zarrus nodded his understanding. “How would you feel about a bit of a field-trip? There have been reports of a Force-sensitive child on Alderaan, and I’m about to head out there.”

Harissa’s heart quickened. “As long as you have me back by tomorrow night.”

“I think I can do that. Famous last words.” He smiled again, and led Harissa farther down his hall to a turbolift.

“So what do we know about it? The baby?”

Zarrus keyed the turbolift to take them up, in the direction of one of the hangars. “An Alderaanian couple suspects their daughter may be able to touch the Force. They contacted their Senator, who is known to be a friend to the Jedi, and asked him to send one of us to find out. He alerted the Temple, and here we go. Sometimes our presence is requested. Other times we’re chasing rumors. I just got back from pursuing a persistent one. It took me all over the place, and at the end of it I discovered a discontented eight-year-old telepath in a spaceport fooling people into thinking his baby brother was floating toys. He was quite strong, though it was a trait coming from a recessive gene in his species, not Force-sensitivity. The kid just wanted attention.” Zarrus ran his fingers through his hair, trying to tuck the strands that had come loose back into the main bunch. It didn’t work very well.

“Does that happen often?” Harissa wondered.

“False trails? Yes. Sometimes the answer isn’t so innocent. Plenty of us have been lured and ambushed. We’ve lost a lot of Jedi that way.”

Harissa’s blood chilled.

So... _not_ a safe line of work.

If Zarrus took her as his Padawan today, it wouldn’t be a better situation than any other knight in the Order.

That canceled out Acquisitions.

Should she just ditch him now and head for somewhere else, or stick this out?

_Could_ she leave gracefully?

Did it _matter_ if it was graceful or not? Zarrus might not be her Master, but then... neither had that Finder and Clan Mother she’d lost.

Authority figures.

Zarrus, by taking her off-planet, would be taking responsibility for her.

She needed out.

Now.

Zarrus stepped out of the turbolift, turned left down the hall. “Alderaan has been a welcoming place to Jedi for hundreds, no, thousands of years. I don’t think we’re likely to have to fight for our lives this time.”

“I’m sorry, Master. I can’t go.”

He stopped and threw her a questioning look.

“There’s something else I have to do. I’m really sorry.”

Baffled, he just shrugged. “Alright. May the Force be with you?”

“And you, Master. I hope Alderaan goes well.” Harissa ducked back into the lift and pushed the first button her finger could find.

 

* * *

 

Zarrus watched her go. Baffled, he continued on his way. Seven steps later, bits and pieces of memory started to connect into the realization of why the name Harissa Nol felt vaguely familiar.

Wenna Ziex’s final mission.

Zarrus’ former Master Ilfud meeting her on the landing platform.

Wenna surviving just long enough to place a tiny baby in his arms before collapsing in death.

_You’re_ that _baby_ , Zarrus realized. _Maybe that’s what spooked you. I mentioned her, and you remembered how dangerous the job is._

She _had_ looked scared.

Poor thing.

 

* * *

 

Harissa sagged against the turbolift’s wall.

All things considered...

It could have gone _worse_.

It was still heavily embarrassing, but if embarrassment kept an innocent man alive, that was something Harissa could handle.

_No to Clan Mother, no to Finder. AgriCorps next._

She could have gone to the miniature Council that kept the Agriculturally-focused Jedi organized.

_But that’s asking for trouble. They’ll ask what Yoda had to say. No. I need to prove I have potential_ before  _I go to them._

That meant she had to locate a plant-Jedi on her own.

The Temple’s many gardens required constant care. Sometimes Jedi on furlough volunteered to help as relaxation, but the vast majority of the garden care fell to AgriCorps members on a rotating roster, similar to the kitchen work.

If she looked long enough, she was bound to find one.

She started at one end of the Temple and searched the gardens, inside and out, one corner to another.

She had to quit for lunch, but kept at it after that.

Finally, mid-afternoon, her efforts brought results.

A solitary Whiphid on his knees in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Dirt stained his white fur. He seemed completely focused on a tree.

The tree didn’t look well to Harissa, though she was no expert in plant health. The leaves drooped, mottled yellow and dry.

“Hello?”

Large brown eyes opened, looking up at her a bit glassy as their owner tried to pull his consciousness away from the tree and back to the present.

Two blinks, and then the fog cleared from them. “Can I help you—” His gaze drifted to her right shoulder and the braid lying against it— “Padawan?”

It surprised her that so soft a voice could emanate from so rough an exterior. A fully-grown male Whipid was not a creature to take lightly. Protruding jaw, large blunt tusks, very tall and a mountain of muscle, Harissa guessed he’d be able to prevent violence at negotiations simply by standing watch.

Even the most foolhardy might think twice before instigating something he’d have to get involved in.

_But he’s not out there in the middle of the violence. He’s_ here.  _Communing with a tree._

“I want to learn about AgriCorps. Would you be willing to let me help you in your duties today?”

“Certainly, if you’re not needed elsewhere.”

Harissa crouched down beside him. “Trust me, I’m not.”

He gave her a nod. “When did you discover your connection to plants?”

“I don’t know if I have one.” Harissa ignored Yoda’s words running on a loop in her head.

“That is easily discovered.” Massive fingers curled around her hand, placing her palm against the tree’s trunk. “Ask it what’s wrong.”

“Is it sentient?”  
“You tell me.”

Harissa closed her eyes to lessen the signals being sent to her brain.

It was  _alive._ That much was clear in the Force to Harissa. It also didn’t... seem... quite right.

She tried to connect with it, tried to determine what might be the ailment.

Her companion had directed her to  _ask_ the tree.

There was no  _mind_ here. It was alive, certainly, but it didn’t even have the lowest levels of intelligence.

She opened her eyes to find the Whiphid watching her. “Well?”  
“It’s unhealthy.”

“And?”

“And it’s not sentient.”

Deep brown eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t communicating with you?”

“No?” Harissa’s forehead wrinkled. “I didn’t hear anything.”  
A gentle smile revealed more massive teeth. “If you want to volunteer to help with the gardening, you’re welcome to do so, of course.”

Harissa felt a sinking in her gut. “I don’t have affinity with plants?”

“You could sit here all day focusing on this tree, and you wouldn’t be able to heal it,” the Whiphid explained. “You’re right. It’s not sentient. But all life  _speaks._ Most Jedi cannot hear the whispers of the grass underfoot, or the trees overhead. Many have tried to learn it, but so far none have been successful. It is either something you have, or you don’t. I am sorry to disappoint you, young one. It is not something to be embarrassed over, your talents simply lie elsewhere.”

Harissa’s eyebrow arched. Embarrassed she  _didn’t_ belong in AgriCorps? Among younglings, the common opinion was that you worked with plants if you weren’t good enough for anything else.

Apparently...

The Agricultural Corps was more picky in choosing its members than the regular Jedi.

_Master Yoda was right._

Harissa scrambled to her feet. “Thank you for your time.”

“Of course, Padawan. May the Force be with you.”

“And you, Master.” Harissa hurried out of his range of vision, glancing back only once.

She needn’t have worried about escaping.

He’d already returned to communing with the plant.

His Force-signature intertwined with the tree’s, and Harissa could feel strength spilling into it from him.

Well.

That was that. She had the rest of the afternoon and evening.

_I’ve eliminated three options, and it hasn’t been two full days yet._

Not good.

She hiked her way back to the Archives.

The tone of the blue glow seemed to have changed its feel.

No longer full of promise, it suggested impending disaster.

“Defo?”

At the sound of his name, the boy looked up. A smile lit his face. “Padawan Nol. Have you found your place yet?”

“EduCorps is the only option left.” Harissa hunched her shoulders and pulled her cloak more tightly around herself.

Defo didn’t look discouraged. “It’s many options. I’m going to be a librarian. Do you enjoy—”

Her grimace said it all.

“Then you wouldn’t like classifying new texts into our organizational system and re-shelving.”

“Definitely not.”

“Outfitting Jedi have pretty much the same work, except they are classifying objects instead of manuscripts.” Defo checked her expression and considered. “Are you good with languages?”

“Average, I guess.”

“You don’t have a driving need to learn more?”

“People have that?” Harissa asked in disbelief.

Defo smiled at her expression. “Some do, yes. Others have a passion for a specific language, and work to translate texts using it.”

“Why?”

Defo gestured to the glowing shelves. “Many documents are available in Basic only, which means they are inaccessible to those who can’t speak it. Other texts exist only in ancient languages most people no longer speak. Some of our Jedi work to translate those  _into_ Basic. Some of our language specialists assist developing worlds come up with a writing system of their own to suit their language, or attend Jedi teams sent to help those worlds. They work closely with Protocol droid software designers, to begin inclusion of lesser-known language families, and— your eyes are glazing.”

Harissa huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. They probably are.”

“The fact you’re not begging me for more information suggests that’s not where you belong.”

“Thank the Force. Why? Does it interest  _you_ ?”

The boy shrugged. “I’ve been fortunate enough to get to watch some of them at work. They do amazing things. You wouldn’t believe how much good they do on those early-development planets.”

“It has to take time, right?” Harissa wondered.

“Sometimes they’re there for years, teaching the natives how to teach  _themselves._ Teachers go out there to train native teachers, so they can continue their planet’s development on their own, in whatever direction they decide they want to take it. That way they aren’t reliant on  _outside_ help, and don’t become dependent on farther-advanced worlds.”

It sounded very admirable, Harissa supposed.

And very  _not_ for her.

“If you’re not interested in teaching, does that apply to the younglings? Because we can always use more teachers who live here at the Temple and work with future Jedi. Mathematics, advanced tech, music, politics—” He didn’t seem to get the reaction he was looking for from her. “Saber technique, Force theory? Philosophy? Art? History? Ship flying? Culture analysis? Any of the other sciences? All the other things you learned— anything?”

“Sorry.”

Defo frowned in concentration and tapped at his datapad for several moments.

“We have various specialists who don’t work with the younglings, but help Jedi teams for their missions. We have historians with general knowledge and also specialists. The Great Sith War, Coruscant’s history, Mandalore’s history, Sith history, Jedi history—”  
“We’re looking for something that Master Yoda will be convinced I  _need to do_ . When you talk about history, it makes me want to run away.”

“Not all consultants focus on history or language or culture,” Defo suggested. “We have experts on various crime syndicates, debate and political experts, experts in law-enforcement forensics, and criminal mind profiling... basically, anything that could require expertise accumulated by years of research and working alongside non-Jedi experts in the same fields.”

“Like when Jedi work with the Coruscant police force to capture specific threats?”

“Exactly like. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes we have the information they need. We’re sort of like ExplorCorps in that way. We interact with non-Jedi a  _lot._ Lending expertise, teaching skills... ExplorCorps lends exploration skills and search-and-rescue know-how. In fact, we have Jedi here in EduCorps who specialize in the disposal of dangerous artifacts that ExplorCorps uncovers.”

Harissa nodded. “And help protect the good ones. And ancient sites that have a strong Force connection.”  
“ _Nothing_ calls to you?” Defo asked, visibly unhappy. “Because it would be easier if you could tell me your strengths, and then I could look for matches  _that_ way.”

Harissa sighed. “That’s the thing. I don’t think I have any.”  
“That means you haven’t found them yet.”

Harissa felt surprised by his surety.  _How old is he again?_ “How would I find them?”

“Living, and keeping your eyes open for them.”  
“I don’t have that kind of time,” Harissa sighed. “I’ve got to find something sooner. Maybe I’m looking at this from the wrong angle.” She eyed the bust of Dooku, one of the Lost Jedi, and now a Sith.

“Maybe I’m not wrong to be afraid. Maybe... if we can show Master Yoda this isn’t just superstition, he’ll let me take the time I need to discover where I belong. Will remove the time constraint.”  
“What do you mean?” Defo refused to look at Dooku’s sightless eyes.

Harissa couldn’t blame him.

“You have experts who study how other philosophies and cultures access the Force, right?”

Defo nodded.

“Many cultures use the Force for various things, and don’t necessarily  _call_ it that. They have a relationship with it that’s unique. What if... what if there  _is_ something wrong with me?”  
“Like a curse?” Defo looked doubtful.

“Dathomir.”

His disbelief drained away, leaving him looking a little sick. “Most cultures that interact with the Force aren’t quite like  _that_ .”

“But Dathomir  _does_ exist.”

“It’s likely that most of the rumors you’ve heard are almost entirely inaccurate,” he warned.

“They do things, strange things, we wouldn’t have thought possible.” Harissa could see in his eyes he agreed. “Things it would be easy to relegate to superstition.  _Very real things_ .”

“You think  _they_ put a curse on you?” Defo’s fingers tightened on his datapad. “Why? Are you  _from_ there?”

Harissa frowned. “I don’t know where I’m from. It was never important to my health.”

“It won’t help you in the short-term, then.” Defo looked disappointed. “Those records will be sealed until you reach knighthood.  _But_ , on the bright side, if things keep going badly, once you’re a knight you’ll be allowed to seek out your planet and people and find out if they can tell you what’s wrong.”  
“That’s too long to wait.”

Defo blinked. “According to what I’ve read, that’s how many adopted kids feel. You know. Children outside the Order who grow up with a family that isn’t their birth family. Often they don’t find out where they came from until adulthood either.”

A thought struck her.

“Unless they choose to find out.” Defo wasn’t the only one who studied outside life with curiosity.

_Now_ he was looking wary. “What are you talking about?”

“I have less than a week. If I come from a planet where the Force is used in bizarre,  _harmful_ ways, we need to know. Master Di’s life could  _depend_ on it.”

“If that was a threat, don’t you think your Finder would have given the warnings necessary? They  _do_ that, you know. They learn what a child will need growing up, what threats there might be unique to itself or its species—”

“My Finder  _died_ . Maybe she didn’t have time to tell.”

Defo squinted at her. “Does the timeline work that way?”

“I won’t know until I find out, will I?” she pointed out, a bit triumphant.

Defo considered for a long moment. “What was your Finder’s name?” he finally asked.

“Wenna Ziex.”

Defo motioned her to an empty computer bank, as far from the other Jedi at work as possible. His fingers flew as he coaxed a file to view. “Wenna Ziex. Human female. Rank of Master. Died—”

“That’s the day I was brought to the Temple,” Harissa hissed, her heart skipping a beat. She hadn’t expected the timing to actually  _work._ “Why doesn’t it say  _how_ ?”

“It does. It’s labeled heart failure. See?”

“Did she have a heart condition?”

Defo shook his head. “To access medical records you have to have authority codes I  _don’t_ have. We can only get the absolute basics.”

“Alright. Let’s look at me.”

Defo complied.

Harissa scanned across the familiar information.

Her Finder. Her date of finding. Her Clan. Her Clan Mothers. Her Masters and the dates when she was taken by each, and the dates death released her from apprenticeship to them.

“It doesn’t say where I’m from, or anything about my family.”

Defo gave her a patient look. “Of course it doesn’t. They want you to be confident in who  _you_ are as a person. If you choose to add other pieces in  _later,_ then fine.”

“But many younglings at least know their  _planet._ I’ve seen Togruta Jedi dressing in traditional Togruta clothing-styles instead of Jedi robes— identifying with their planet and culture of origin.”

Defo gave her a helpless glance. “It’s a case-by-case decision. For some reason, they decided to withhold your planet.”

“What if it was a glitch? Maybe they  _meant_ to, but forgot.”

Harissa knew she was grasping for justification, and Defo’s expression only drove the point home.

“Could you... maybe... crack some of the lower-level encryptions?”

“What do you think I am, a computer expert? I’m a  _librarian._ I can direct you to slicer Jedi—”

“Defo,” Harissa pleaded. “Master Di’s life is at stake. We need to know if I come from some curse-infested place. Maybe  _that’s_ why my planet isn’t listed. Because they’re concerned for my safety.”

“Maybe,” Defo conceded, clearly reluctant.

“I’m not asking you to find out who my family is. You don’t have to break  _that_ many rules. We’re supposed to  _save lives,_ right? That’s all I’m asking. The chance to save  _this one life._ You can see how many have been lost already, can’t you?”

“If you just  _explained_ to Master Yoda, I’m sure he—”

“He thinks this is fear-based.”

Defo turned in the chair to look back at her. “It _isn’t_?”  
Harissa’s daring melted away in an instant.

“Of course it is. But I’m not making things up because I want to avoid facing my fears. I have  _good reason_ to be afraid. And so does Master Di. What would your investigative law-enforcement Jedi say about patterns?  _Coincidence_ doesn’t exist. Either the Force is intentionally getting rid of Jedi who take responsibility for me, or something is  _wrong._ Five, Defo. Three of them in a year-and-a-half.”

“But did they all die from  _heart failure_ ?” Defo pressed. “They didn’t, according to what I found. Don’t look at me like that. I  _may_ have looked up those people after we talked last time. Wouldn’t  _you_ have, in my place? Heart failure, a speeder crash, a negotiation gone wrong, a battle, a long-term disease that was going to kill her anyway? It’s  _not_ a pattern. I’m sorry, it’s just not—”

Defo broke off as he realized Harissa couldn’t breathe.

She leaned over the table, trying to ignore the heat racing up her arms. The scent of blaster-scorched flesh. The sound of a body being struck by a vehicle. The sight of her Master, so peacefully asleep... and then _not_ —

“I’m sorry,” Defo worried. “I’m sorry, Harissa? Please? Come back?”

Harissa drew in a deep breath and called on the Force to still her trembling. “I’m here.”

“I’ll try. Okay? I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try. I’ll look into it.”

Harissa gave him a shaky smile that didn’t reach her eyes, let alone her teeth.

“But you need to give me time. At least two days. There’s people I have to coordinate with.”  
She gave him a nod. “Alright. What made you change your mind?”

“I hadn’t... realized what it would be like to lose someone. It's never happened to me before. And I may have... seen inside your mind just now. You’re right. We have to save Master Di.”

She gave him a weak smile.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

It wasn’t easy to wait. Harissa spent most of the time pacing, trying to decide how to present her case to Yoda. Countless imaginary arguments later, she found herself in no better place than where she’d started.

It didn’t help that when she showed up, two days later to the minute, it turned out Defo needed just a bit more time.

_Time is what we’re running out of._

Evening of the next day a knock at her door resulted in Defo being smuggled into her room with a furtive glance to ensure no-one was watching.

“What did you find?”

Defo sat on her bed and tapped at his datapad. “I couldn’t find your planet.”

“What?” Harissa, too agitated to sit, paced the tiny meditation pad. “They weren’t going to tell me after I reached knighthood?”

“I don’t know. But it wasn’t an accident that it’s not easily available, it’s behind far too much security to be unintentional.”

Harissa frowned. “Does that mean it’s dangerous?”

“I don’t know what it means. I found nothing on your family, and I couldn’t get the report on master Ziex’s death, her medical records, or the report on your arrival to the Temple.”

_Now_ Harissa sat down.

It took a little while before she managed to ask, “Did you find  _anything_ ?”

“Only that before she died, Master Ziex said your name was Harissa Nol. I tried looking up your last name to see if anything turned up, but there were too many results. It didn’t help.”

Harissa wilted. “So... that’s it, then.”

“Not necessarily.” Defo held out the datapad. “I couldn’t find any of _that,_ true, so I looked up curses and tried to get what I could about Force-using cultures in general. I couldn’t find something that would explain your situation, but what I found proves that strange use of the Force _does_ exist. Most of it I couldn’t access... but what counts is it might be possible.”

Harissa thanked him, assured him she was grateful for all he’d tried to do.

It probably sounded hollow.

She needed a lot more than _might be possible_ in order to convince Yoda for a reprieve.

_Master Di is doomed._

Her dreams that night were full of disaster and heartache.

 

* * *

 

Her final two days passed in a fog of dread.

Only one option remained open to her, but it was too horrible, too ugly to look in the face. She refused to consider it.

Something had to turn up.  _Had_ to.

Something other than the awful thing.

Her last evening in the Temple was interrupted by a call from Yoda with directions where and when to meet her new Master early the next morning.

This was it.

She’d have one opportunity to appeal to Ima-Gun himself, and then she’d be dragged out of here into the middle of a war.

If she walked into that meeting with this much fear spilling off of her in the Force, her potential Master was going to dismiss what she had to say.

_I have to get control over this._

She breathed in... out...

_There is no fear; there is only preparation._

The familiar words hung in her mind as though waiting.

_Well, thinking about it isn't going to help. I need to prepare._

Of course... preparation entailed getting ready to leave the Temple...

Which just drove home the disaster of the whole thing one more time.

It was with a sense of helplessness that she wiped all the contents off her datapad and made her visit to the outfitting halls.

They were busy today, filled with knights and Padawans collecting supplies for missions, earnest conversations filling the air.

“Harissa? Over here. I have everything all ready for you.”

Harissa looked around and located the owner of the voice at one of the long counters.

A gray Mon Calamari with clear blue eyes and a high-collared white variation on ordinary Jedi attire waved her over.

“It’s been a while since you came down this way.” Temma smiled at her.

Harissa grimaced. “I’m being sent out with a new Master to join the war effort.”

“New Draxis. When I heard your name, I decided to draw your kit myself.” She handed a small duffle bag to Harissa. “Because you’re going to be away from population centers, I added a water purification device, just in case. It’s a new model. I’ve put the specs on the datapad, in case you decide to have a look. I also put a few basic maps of New Draxis on there and a light history of the system. Have you brought me your old ’pad?”

Harissa nodded and slid it across the counter. “Completely clean.”

“Good girl. Everything except the datapad will fit in your belt pockets with a little room to spare, and you can put that and your clothes in the duffle once it’s empty. Since you like to have an extra hair binder, I included one as well. A stretchy loop instead of a tie. See? I remembered.”

It was a kind thought, and it warmed Harissa’s heart a couple degrees. “Thank you.”  
“You’re welcome, dear. I just hope your time with Master Di is kinder on you than the past has been. I want to hear wonderful stories when you come back to turn in worn-out and well-used devices.”

Harissa huffed something that almost sounded like a laugh. “If I manage to keep track of them this time. Do you know him? Master Di?”

“Only by sight. He seems kind and intelligent.”

“I hope he’s good at  _surviving._ ”

“I’m sure he is, dear. The Force will be with you both.”

“And you, Master. Thanks again.”  
Harissa returned to her room and dumped the duffle out on her bed to familiarize herself with what had been deemed necessary for a war-focused New Draxis mission.

She tucked her second pair of leggings, socks, tunic, and new datapad into the bag and cinched it closed. She spread her belt out on the bed and opened all the pouches.

If Temma said everything would fit, it would fit.

Rebreather.

Every-purpose cleanser.

The water purification gadget.

Three packets of instant-water, in case there wasn’t a local liquid source available.

Four emergency ration sticks.

Needle and tightly-wound ball of thread.

A tooth scrubber, collapsible hair detangler, and a few other personal grooming devices specific to Harissa’s own needs.

A small stack of Republic credits.

And the ubiquitous disguise kit, just in case everything went to pieces and Harissa had to go on the run, alone and cut off from help. Vaguely curious, she combed through it to see what had been provided this time.

Undoubtedly in-depth directions had been loaded onto the datapad.

There was a powder to take the curls out of her hair, leaving it straight. Dyes to change its color, and a small vibrorazor to change its cut. A pair of droptacs to change her eyes from brown to blue, and skin-tone modifying dyes in various shades, including a couple near-human tones. A mirror. An extra comlink. A handful of unmarked credits.

And lastly, several tiny bottles with brushes built into the lids, containing liquid of bright, flashy colors.

_What are_ those  _for?_ Harissa wondered.  _Some sort of skin decoration?_

Apparently there was a bit more to blending in with New Draxans than to simply no longer look like the Padawan who’d arrived.

It took a few tries to fit the emergency disguise tools back into the tiny package. From there it was simple to slip into its specified belt pocket.

Everything else followed, and Harissa discovered Temma’s estimate had been accurate.

She had one empty pouch, and a little room left in a couple of the others.

Now she just had to wait for morning.

Prepared...  _and_ afraid. 

 

* * *

 

Somehow, she managed to sleep.

And then it was time.

She slipped into her cloak, secured her comlink to her wrist, and picked up the satchel.

It was a five minute’s walk interrupted by a turbolift to the meeting room.

Harissa’s feet fought her every step of the way.

All too soon the door slid open and she caught her first glimpse of _him_.

He stood with his back to the door, posture relaxed but watchful, his carapace- -like skin a few shades lighter than Harissa's own. A painting hung on the wall, portraying a large collection of huts built down the sheer face of a cliff. He seemed to be studying it.

“Do you know where this came from?” he asked.

Harissa felt her gut churn just a little tighter. What was he doing? “No, Master.”

“It was painted by a community. This is their village. A hundred years ago they were attacked by a creature they had never encountered before. It was impervious to their primitive weapons. They requested Jedi assistance. We answered.” He gave a low, rumbling chuckle. “The creature was sentient. The Jedi found a way to communicate, helped it and the village create a way to live in symbiosis. The villagers offered the Jedi their currency; far more than they could afford to give. The creature offered the Jedi one of her cubs. He refused both. They wouldn’t let him leave without some token of their appreciation. Using pigments from the fur the creature shed, they worked together to create this. Seeing the effort, love and teamwork they had put into it, the Jedi accepted. It has graced these walls ever since. Everything you see here, to the very columns and stones of the floors, have stories. They are worth learning and passing on.”

Harissa noticed the churning in her gut had eased.

She’d been too focused on the quiet scene. Too focused on the story.

Ima-Gun turned and walked to her.

Unable to make eye-contact with him, Harissa stared at the floor. She flinched when he placed his hand on her shoulder.

“You are afraid of your story, but it isn’t finished yet. You are thinking of those you could hurt, not those you could help.”

“Was that Jedi responsible for losing as many people as I have?”

“Harissa. All Jedi lose. All Jedi fail.”

That startled her into looking up into his eyes. A piercing blue, they stared right back into hers.

“What makes their lives powerful is not that they failed less often than others or that they made fewer mistakes. They are powerful because they don’t give up. They keep trying to help.”

His voice, deep and gravelly, had a gentle strength that calmed Harissa’s pounding heart.

_It shouldn’t. I can’t let it._

“You’re going to die,” she said. “Everyone who has ever been in charge of me has died. I don’t know if your story was to tell me I haven’t found my village yet, or that whatever it is that kills my Masters isn’t something to fight, but to learn to live with; but whatever your message, please leave me here when you go.”

“You speak as though my fate was secured.”

“If you take me, it is.” _Believe me,_ please _believe me_ — “I know Jedi don’t believe in curses. If it’s not a curse, then it’s something else, but _whatever_ it is, it... _distracts_. It makes them lose focus. They dodge left when they should go right. They miscalculate by a fraction of a millimeter. They _die_. And they didn’t have to.”

He didn’t seem moved.

This was so much worse than she had anticipated.

Harissa could sense just how much he believed in her. How willing he was to trust her with his life. How ready he was to risk everything on the bet that she was worth nurturing.

And with her cornered, utterly cornered, the horrible thing offered its obscurity. She had one final way out. She hadn’t been willing to face it earlier, but now there was no option.

“I want to leave the Jedi Order.”

The words tasted like bile.

Worse, it looked like Ima-Gun could feel the lie.

For a long moment there was silence after her declaration. Harissa put on her best determined face, met Ima-Gun’s examining eye, and tried to ignore the terror her stand had unleashed inside.

Walking away from this place, these people— the thought threatened to dissolve her into tears.

But if that’s what it took to save the man standing before her, so be—

“Why is it that you want to be a Jedi?”

_Didn’t you just hear me? I said I_ didn't _want to be one—_

He could see through her. It wasn’t good. The intensity of his eyes demanded an answer, though his expression remained gentle.

“Master, all those deaths may have been unrelated, separated by years. But no Padawan has a history like mine. I am the _only_ common denominator among those Jedi—”

“I didn’t ask why you want to leave. I asked why you want to stay.”

“I— _don't_ want to stay—”

He didn’t call her on the lie. He just waited, so patient.

And then the tears filled her eyes.

Slamming her eyelids shut to try to hide them, Harissa bowed her head. _Please don’t notice. Please—_ She fought to control the tightness in her throat enough to speak evenly, and unilaterally failed. “I wanted to help people.”

The words seemed trite. They sounded like something a politician would spew in order to make himself look good. They felt like an evasion of the question. The “correct” answer to give a teacher.

Ima-Gun wasn’t going to buy it. Not for a moment.

It didn’t matter that her inner core twisted against the thought of giving up that dream.

His hand tightened its grip on her shoulder. “What do you want to help people with?”

He... _believed_ her?

She could almost feel his gaze scanning her heart. It burned.

Maybe he could see how deeply the “cliche” wasn’t a cliche to her.

Could he read her that well?

“When people are at an end to what they can give, they call the Jedi. When people want to find a way to peace but they can’t find it, they ask a Jedi to help them find it. When people are afraid or about to give up...”

Harissa’s face burned.

She hoped he couldn’t tell.

_I sound stupid._

“You want to help people overcome the fear that terrorizes you.”

Harissa flinched out from under his hand and back a couple steps. “I what?” She needed to look at his face. Needed to gauge what he meant, but couldn’t manage it.

“Do not be ashamed of your fear, Harissa. You have more reason than many to experience it.”

“Fear leads to anger,” Harissa offered, the familiar words killing the tears and giving her a little confidence.

“True most of the time. Sometimes it leads to giving up. You said you want to bring hope to those who are losing it. You want to stand between the afraid and what is terrorizing them. That is not the heart of a coward.”

“But I am one.” Harissa couldn’t run from her inner humiliation any longer.

This man saw through her anyway; she might as well just... surrender.

Be fully honest. Like Defo had suggested.

It wasn’t like she had much of a reputation to save.

She hoped Defo was having a better day than she was...

“I’m afraid to go out there and fight in a war. I’m afraid I’d freeze up, I’d fail and people would die, I’m afraid that any Master who takes me is going to die, war or no. I’m afraid of what might happen to me on a battlefield. I’m afraid of the clones. I’m afraid of just about _everything_.”

“You are wiser than most Padawans your age.”

_That_ jolted Harissa’s gaze back up to Ima-Gun’s face.

“You have felt more death than most of your peers, and have a much better grasp of pain. For them, war is exciting. An opportunity to prove themselves to their Masters. The opportunity for great feats of courage. That harm could come to themselves or their Masters is inconceivable, even if they claim to understand the risks. On the battlefield, mistakes don’t just cost the one making them, but everyone around them. Perhaps a planet of people.”

This _wasn't_ making her feel better.

“Harissa. Your fear isn’t a flaw. But if you let it conquer you, it won’t be the people around you who are winning. You leaving the Order isn’t going to make me a winner.”

“But you’ll be alive.”

“There is no such certainty in war— or even life without war. Jedi died before the Clone War began, and they will die after it ends. I do not fear death. When it comes for me, it will not be an enemy.”

Harissa stared at him in disbelief.

The depths of kindness, of patience, of _care_ that this man possessed— his death couldn’t be anything _other_ than wrong. Maybe _he_ didn’t feel threatened by the concept of his time being cut short, but the _galaxy_ would feel the loss.

“If you take me, you’ll die early. Before you needed to. And all the people you _could_ have helped, you won’t. Because you won’t be here. Those people will lose because of me.”

“If you give up on your training and leave the Order, all the people you could have helped, you won’t. Because you won’t be here. What about _those_ people?”

_No. No. Don’t do this._

Why was he doing this to her?

“Either way you choose, people may die. You are afraid of letting people down. Of letting me down. Of making mistakes. I can promise you, if you come with me, you will make mistakes. You will let us down. Just like we make mistakes. Just like we will let you down. So the decision for you to make is this: Would you rather let us down by abandoning us, or by trying, and genuinely helping people in between the mistakes?”

Leaving didn’t sound so noble anymore.

She’d felt cornered before.

Now she felt treed. By a menace that could climb.

“Do you feel fear?” she finally managed to ask.

He didn’t hesitate with his answer. “Every day.”

“Isn’t that against the Code?”

Ima-Gun smiled. “What you _feel_ is never against the Code. What you choose to hold on to, and how you choose to act on it, _that_ decides whether you are a Jedi or not. You experience much fear. That isn’t wrong. Don’t be ashamed of it. But don’t sit in it. Let it flow through you, and out. Let it pass. Experience it, but don’t hold on to it, and don’t let it control you. It will hurt, but you will heal in a way that you never will if you try to block it, deny it, or fight it. That is why the Code specifies _there is no fear, there is only preparation._ The counter to fear isn’t not feeling it, but working _through_ it.”

She’d been so determined to walk away from him.

But...

He now knew the worst about her. Her deepest flaw.

And she could _feel_ that he still wanted her.

She hadn’t lost respect in his eyes.

She felt... safe.

_It’s a lie. Don’t give in to it. You’re not safe. Not ever—_

But she wanted to stay with him. Going forward might be even more terrifying than staying behind...

But no matter what she chose, fear was going to be there.

She’d rather face it _with_ him than without him.

_Don’t. Give. In_.

“Harissa Nol. Would you be my Padawan?”

The formal words made her heart quicken... and it wasn’t all fear. There was a tentative eagerness whispering to life.

And against her resolves and resolutions, she found herself bowing at the waist and saying, “Yes, Master.”

His smile crinkled the hard skin around his eyes. “Then come. We have a long flight ahead of us.”

It felt good to fall in step a pace behind him and to his right as he strode out of the room and down the hall.

He would easily pass the clones in height, and still had two centimeters on Harissa’s own one-point-nine meters.

In this moment... her Master seemed big enough.

It might be ridiculous to feel that way. Worse, folly.

But it felt good to look up into his face.

Another illusion of safety.

Another gentle tug. Another opportunity to forget the danger her presence put him in.

_If I am a death magnet somehow, I’ll just have to learn how to hold it at bay. If I keep close enough to him, and hone my danger-sense to as sharp as it can get... maybe it will be alright._

Hope stirred in her heart.

Maybe she could find the joy of Padawanship that came so naturally to others.

Maybe this was the one.

_Maybe the past_ was _just coincidence. I mean, it had to happen to_ somebody _. Right? What were the odds of it_ never _happening in all of past and future for the Order?_

Her musing shattered as she caught sight of a familiar face.

Defo.

He had the look of someone trying to appear to have just happened into contact with another person.

Harissa shrugged, a bit sheepish. So no. Their plan hadn’t worked. She’d capitulated.

But then, it would have been capitulating to go the other way too.

He gave her an encouraging smile. “May the Force be with you.”

“And with you. See you when I get back.”

Ima-Gun glanced over, gave Defo a smile and a nod.

As they continued, he threw his Padawan a curious glance. “Friend of yours?”

She hadn’t really thought about it... but... he _was_. The age gap didn’t matter. He’d been there for her when she needed him.

Maybe someday she could return the favor.

“Yes. He was trying to help me find a way to convince you _not_ to take me.”

“Ah.” He seemed amused. “I’m afraid that didn’t go so well.”

Harissa tried giving him a smile in return, and found it felt good.

_I don’t want to come back needing a new Master. I want to still be your Padawan when I come home next._

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

The hangar Ima-Gun led her to was empty save for a single gunship. On the landing pad, currently extended out into the sunlight, sat his shuttle.

Harissa blinked as she took in the dark brown spirals and dots decorating the red-and-white ship. “Master... isn’t it unusual for the clones to paint Jedi craft?”

That amused smile lit her Master’s eyes again. “Wait until you see _their_ ships.”

“Doesn’t it... bother you?”

“Should it?” he asked, his voice even.

Harissa focused on the spacecraft as they approached. “But... aren’t we supposed to be dignified?”

“Is it _un_ dignified?”

Harissa squinted up at him. “It’s an army. Isn’t there supposed to be discipline? Regularity?”

“My men are very disciplined. I can count on them in any situation. I see no harm in letting them express themselves where they can. If that means allowing them paint my ships to match theirs, so be it.”

“But we’re their commanding officers.” This wasn’t making a lot of sense to Harissa. Scanning her memories of everything she’d been taught about warfare, she couldn’t find _anything_ that seemed to match this.

“They respect me. They obey me. I do not feel the need to stifle them. They were created to fight someone else’s war. They have no choice but to learn to fight. What has been done to them is wrong. The least I can do for them is allow them to identify with me and let their creativity grow. Of course, it will be up to you whether you let them paint _your_ fighter or not. Would you like to fly us out of here?”

Harissa’s heart seized.

She’d been his Padawan for all of seven minutes and she was supposed to show off her piloting skills?

_I can do this_ , she thought.

Giving him a nod, she took the lead into the cockpit.

Checking the controls, warming the engines, easing the vessel into Coruscant’s sky were matters of simply remembering her training.

She refused to think about Ima-Gun watching her, and just ran through her checklists.

They cleared the atmosphere, and she locked in the navicomp’s coordinates.

And then hyperspace spiraled around them, and Harissa leaned back in her seat and took in a deep breath.

Nothing had gone wrong. No embarrassing mistakes.

_Thank the Force._

Harissa waited for her Master to comment on her performance, but the critique didn’t come. Instead, he was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, apparently lost in thought.

_Should I ask him what he’s thinking about?_

_No. He’ll tell me when he’s ready._

The ship didn’t need tending, so she readjusted her posture in her seat, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.

The tangled and intense emotions she’d experienced over the last week had drained her, and it was starting to catch up. It wasn’t sleep that she needed, but calm.

She reached out to the Force for serenity.

There were the jitters in her stomach, wondering what would happen when they reached New Draxis. There, beside them, loyalty to Ima-Gun beginning to form. Also nearby, genuine excitement.

Maybe it was time. _Her_ time.

The defeat of the past might be passed.

_Acceptance._ She took another deep breath, letting it out slowly as she embraced the various emotions swirling through her. A gentle brook passing through.

_I need to not build dams. Not to try to keep them out, or to try to lock them up somewhere, or to try to keep them._

It felt _good_. To sit here, beside her Master, at peace with herself.

She could see him, in the Force. He wasn’t loud. Instead, he had a quiet, solid presence. She reached out to it, felt its strength, let it warm her soul. He was so quiet. So at peace, in spite of the turmoil of war.

Beautiful.

To be in constant contact with that heart, to watch the way it responded to life as it transpired around, to draw comfort and knowledge from it was a privilege Harissa wasn’t going to take lightly.

She felt him become aware of her scrutiny, and his scanning of her Force signature in return.

_He won’t find something beautiful._ The thought didn’t worry her, it just tingled with regret.

Still focused on Ima-Gun’s Force signature, Harissa realized he was drawing comfort from hers, just like she was drawing it from his.

_He’s..._ glad _I’m his Padawan._

The thought was a shock... and also delightful.

_We’re a team. A unit._

In that moment, the current of her fear was lost in the golden sense of _rightness_ seeping through her soul.

She lost track of time as her mind rested. It had been tensed for so long, waiting for the next blow, that she’d forgotten what it felt like to just breathe. To just experience the subtle joy of self and another person.

It was the chime of the navicomputer that pulled her from the meditation.

No longer tired, she kept track of the scans as they came out of hyperspace.

A cruiser, Venator-class, hung in space over a world white with cloud-cover.

Ima-Gun keyed the comm. “Admiral, we’re back. How have things been?”

“About the same as when you left, up here at least. Captain Keeli reports that they’ve been hard-pressed down below.”

“Then I think we’ll swing by and pick up our fighters.”

“They’ll be prepped and ready for you. I look forward to meeting the Commander.”

“And she, you, Admiral. See you in a moment.”

The comm shut off and Harissa focused on guiding the shuttle towards the hangar Ima-Gun pointed out to her.

“He sounded different than I expected a clone to,” Harissa spoke up.

“He isn’t one. Admiral Dao has made battle his career. He had his rank long before the Clone War began.”

_That_ wasn’t at all intimidating. _He may have been studying tactics before I was_ born _._

“But speaking of clones, you said you were afraid of them.” There was a question in his tone.

“I don’t understand them, Master.” Harissa brought the shuttle in, measuring distances with her eyes and the Force as well as by instrument. “They’re twelve years old, but not. They’re all the same... but they have names?” She’d started out confident in her statement, but lost it, and her final words were offered more as a question than assertion.

She thought of Keeli’s picture. Of the intricate design on his head. Of the spirals on the shuttle.

“They are as unique as the rest of us.” Ima-Gun chuffed a laugh. “And they are very intelligent, very quick, and very skilled. Many of them make it their mission to _not_ look like one another. Mannerisms, personalities, worldviews, humor— no two are exactly alike, any more than any other two human beings.”

“But... Master. They’re created, they grow in jars, they mature twice as fast, and didn’t have childhoods—”

“It seems to me those are things to be regretted, not held against them.”

“—All they know is fighting and killing. And weren’t they genetically modified to _not_ be independent?”

He waited a moment to see if she was finished, and then spoke. “They have been, are being misused. Most of the galaxy sees them as organic droids. I can assure you, Harissa, they are _not_. Yes. Their creativity, their humanity, their independence has been withheld from them. I want to restore it to them as much as possible. It pleases me when they express their individuality. I encourage them to think for themselves. They’ve become rather vocal about respect. My men reserve it for those who’ve earned it. That heartens me. When this war is over, I don’t want them to be locked into a military life if that isn’t what they want. I want them to dream.”

“Yes... but _can_ they?” She needed to know. She was facing hundreds of stern-faced men, absolutely dedicated to fighting and dying for the Republic, and that was as intimidating, or more so, than Admiral Dao.

“Yes. It’s not easy. They have to learn _how_. I don’t know how they will respond to you. Technically you are older than them, but in battle experience, they have a decade or more on you. They are probably as concerned about you as you are about them. In a world of brothers and superior officers, you are something different. They will wonder how _you_ are motivated and what _you_ are capable of just like you are asking me about them. Some may even be as afraid of you as you are of them.”

Now _that_ she hadn’t expected.

Harissa stayed quiet as she landed the shuttle— a gentle kiss of the landing gear against the deck. She allowed herself a moment of silent exultation at the precision and perfection of it.

Extending the ramp, she stood from her seat and discovered her legs had cramped. The trip must have been longer than she thought.

Through the front viewport, she could see them.

Clones.

They may have been continuing their work, but they were throwing curious glances at the shuttle.

Harissa’s gut tightened, and she felt very glad that they weren’t Force-sensitive.

“Do all of them have names?” she found herself asking.

“Yes. And there are subtle differences that will help you tell them apart. The way they move. Tattoos. The way they cut their hair. Some of them even dye it. Expressions. Gestures. The way they speak.”

With hundreds _of_ them under their command, would those subtleties be _enough_?

_What if I_ can’t _keep them straight?_ she worried.

“Does it matter to them if we can tell them apart, or use their names?” she asked, hoping for a negative response. They were crafted to be the perfect soldiers, after all—

“They don’t admit it, but it means very much to them, Harissa. My first unofficial request is that you take the time to _know_ them. Spend time with them. Understand them. Treat them as individuals, and respect them. They have great potential, even if the galaxy doesn’t recognize it. Don’t use your fear of the unknown as a reason to avoid _learning_.”

There it was.

The bubble of idyllic wonder that had been their first hyperspace journey shattered.

Here was the gritty, dirty present.

“Yes, Master.”

“Ah. Admiral Dao has come to meet us.” Ima-Gun led her through the back compartment to the ramp. At the top he paused and turned to her. Resting his hand on her shoulder, he said, “It’s a different world, but you have the training to adapt.” He strode down the ramp without another backward glance.

Swallowing hard, Harissa tried her best to look grown-up. Half-way down the ramp it occurred to her that the expression might be interpreted as arrogance. By the base of the ramp she was afraid her complete lack of knowing what to do was painfully evident.

_I probably look like a scared kid. I_ am _a scared kid._

If Admiral Dao had any doubts about her, he didn’t show them, even in the Force. He greeted her formally, shook her hand, and gestured to a Delta-7 _Aethersprite_ Jedi starfighter, explaining it was hers.

With a nod to her Master, “General,” he headed back for the bridge.

Harissa’s gaze was locked on her fighter.

Her... _own_... fighter.

It was purple and gray, with no decorations. It was quietly humming, hatch up, waiting for her.

Beside it, sat another one, this one brown and gray...

And _covered_ in custom details. Black swirls and dots, and what may have been an artistic representation of Ima-Gun’s facial horns. Even its _astromech_ was covered in matching designs.

“Let’s go.” Her Master climbed into his fighter and the cockpit closed around him.

Harissa mimicked him, and discovered that while, _yes_ , the simulators were very accurate... reality was a whole other thing.

In formation with her Master, hurtling into the atmosphere, she instinctively tried to ignore the fear building inside.

_No. No. Don’t resist it. Feel it and keep going._

She tore down the dam she’d been struggling to build.

The rush of pure terror was difficult to take, but she focused on Ima-Gun’s Force-signature. Steady. Calm. Very, very focused.

The comm crackled. “Captain Keeli. The Commander and I are inbound. Would you like some assistance?”

“General! We’re pinned down. Can you take out the tanks?”

“Gladly.”

They broke through the lowering clouds and kept speeding towards mountains.

From here, all looked peaceful.

It changed fast.

The smoke was visible first. It darkened the air like everything was on fire.

Then the flares. Red. Blue.

And then they were close enough to see individuals.

Harissa couldn’t pay them mind, she was too focused on the tanks.

“Harissa. Take the two on the left, I’ll take the two on the right.”

“Copy, Master.”

Sudden panic surged as she realized it was an open comm.

All the men down there could hear her.

_What if I fail them? What if I miss?_

She could sense death, pain, so much excruciating pain, fear, desperation—

For a moment her vision blurred under the weight of it.

“Padawan.” Ima-Gun’s voice wasn’t stern, but was urgent enough to cut through the sheer overload she was receiving through the Force. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” she gasped out, forcing her eyes to focus.

“Focus on the tanks, and only the tanks.”

“Yes, Master.” There wasn’t a thing she could do about the fear lacing her tone.

And then the targets were right there.

Harissa fired because it felt right in the Force, and pulled up and away.

Glancing to the side she could see Ima-Gun on her wingtip.

“We’re going to swing back around and get the second one,” he directed.

She’d missed one.

“Start your turn.”

The ships curved through the air— mostly in sync— and then the tank was there in Harissa’s viewport again.

This time she took a deep breath and focused.

Tank.

Lasers.

_Now_.

She saw it explode as she curved back up away from the ground.

Through the comms she could hear cheering. An almost thunderous clamor.

“Harissa. We’re going to put down near the barricade. We’ll to join the fight on foot.”

Lightsabers.

She was far more familiar with her lightsaber than with a fighter.

This landing was something less than perfect. The ship may have hit a bit harder than graceful, but nothing broke, and it was down.

Crawling out of the cockpit, Harissa stood up only to find her knees were trembling.

The wounded, evacuated from the thick of the battle, lay in rows on the ground around her. Some screamed. Others moaned softly to themselves. Some lay in silent agony.

Others—

Others were already dead—

Horror threatened to choke her.

The injuries were brutal. Blood, mud, other fluids...

This place was hell.

Troopers were tending to them, but there weren’t enough caregivers. Men were going to die who didn’t have to.

And they were going to die alone.

Tears flooded Harissa’s eyes. She could sense so much fear, despair, fury against the knowledge that they were going to die. Going to miss out on the future.

A hand on her shoulder made her look up. She couldn’t see her Master’s face through the tears. “Can we stay and help them? Please?”

“No,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “We have to repulse the droids. If we can get rid of them, we can keep more men from this. We can help the wounded only after the source is stilled.”

_These men will be beyond our help by then_ , she realized.

It tore her heart out to turn away from them, to follow her Master towards the explosions and blasterfire.

He was running, lightsaber in his hand and lit.

Harissa stumbled after him, gaze locked on his blue blade, and pulled out her own lightsaber.

She’d expected its familiar hum against her hand to comfort her.

It didn’t.

And then they were in the middle of it.

There was no safety behind her anymore— danger came from every direction, chaos, struggle—

Mud churned to shin-depth.

Men falling. Men crawling. Men roaring in rage and determination and triumph and anguish.

The relentless, pitiless droids, photoreceptors glaring, vastly outnumbering them.

It was too much. Far too much.

She deflected blaster bolts that came too close to her, and tried to follow her Master.

His blade mowed through droids, and he used the Force to shove those out of his reach off-balance.

Clones, in armor that had once been white and was now varying shades of brown and red, surged around their General, and with his presence, hope sprang from nothingness into existence.

Harissa could feel the change.

So many men, so grim, but with the arrival of their General, the possibility of victory, of life, of possibly escaping without a maiming wound soared skyward.

And still men fell. So many of them—

It felt _horrible_. So much hope, so much anticipation, being cut down.

They thought he would save them.

He couldn’t save them all.

She cut down one droid. Then another. Another. Another.

She struggled to keep up with her Master, but her feet were getting caught by the mud, and she could barely see through the smoke and crazy lights. An explosion that dismembered the clone standing next to her knocked her off her feet.

She had to roll to avoid a blast from a super battle droid.

Covered in mud, she lunged upward and forward, driving her lightsaber into its chest. Dragging it through the side, she screamed at it, at the horror around her, at _all_ of it.

She couldn’t see her Master.

She couldn’t sense him, either. The death and carnage were too loud, tearing through the Force like brutal claws.

Moving forward because she didn’t know what else to do, she stepped on something that didn’t give in the same way as the mud did.

It still gave, and it rolled under her foot.

Falling hard on her hands, her shins braced on whatever had tripped her, she looked back.

Into beautiful brown eyes.

Scrambling off, she discovered she’d stepped on—

Harissa retched hard, turning her head so she wouldn’t hit the trooper. It only took a moment for her stomach to empty.

“Help me,” the broken man rasped, grabbing her forearm.

Harissa swiped at her mouth with her left arm, choking back the bitter taste in her mouth. She forced herself to look at his wound, the wound she’d _stepped_ in.

His chest plate had been shattered, pieces driven into his body. Ribs and flesh had been torn away, exposing the pulsating life beneath.

_I stepped_ in _him—_

Harissa turned her eyes to his. She couldn’t hide her horror. “I’m sorry,” she rasped. “I’m so sorry—”

“Help me,” he begged.

And then something scooped her up and hauled her bodily away.

She screamed and struck at it with her bare fists and—

Her lightsaber was missing.

An explosion obliterated the trooper she’d been with and nearly blinded her in the process.

She was set down, and she saw white. Then a helmet came off and she found herself staring into brown eyes.

The same brown eyes she’d just seen annihilated—

“Easy, Commander. I’m on your side. My name’s Skid.”

She stood panting, realizing he’d saved her life. She hadn’t sensed the coming explosion.

He held out his hand to her, and she saw her lightsaber in his grip. She took it from him, and at the same moment realized she was weeping. She swiped at her nose, trying to conceal the mucus—

_I don’t belong here. I don’t—_

The man had tattoos spiraling away from his right eye. He slammed his helmet back on and started shooting again.

And then her Master was at her side once more, lightsaber deflecting shots from the both of them. “We need to take out the tactical droid,” he called over the deafening chaos. “Come with me!”

They plunged into droids.

Here, there were no clones.

Just enemy.

Harrissa fought like she’d never fought in her life.

Just when she thought she had nothing left to give, they found him.

“Take him out,” Ima-Gun directed.

This one wasn’t armed.

Harissa sprang forward and bisected the droid from head to legs.

Gasping for air, she leaned against the holotable and realized they were standing in some sort of makeshift tactical center.

The floor was strewn with droid parts.

_Did we do all that?_

They must have.

“Harissa.”

Her Master’s hand on her shoulder again, turning her to look back in the direction they’d come from.

They’d gained altitude. A lot of it. She could see the entire battle from here.

Without guidance, the right flank of the enemy advance was wavering.

“Tactical has been destroyed,” Ima-Gun called into his comlink.

“Hear that, men? Drive these clankers back into the stones they were melted from!”

Was that Keeli?

The clones drove harder and the enemy’s left flank disintegrated even as the right turned to run.

The offensive shattered, and it became a rout.

Harissa could sense the clones’ fury and pain at brothers lost. Could sense them enjoying slaughtering the remaining droids.

Her knees gave out and she sat hard on the ground. Now she _knew_ she had nothing left to give.

“Harissa. Now would be the time to help the wounded.”

_“Help me,”_ the nameless, gutted clone flooded her memory.

She leaped up and raced back down the slope.

It didn’t take her long to find the medic.

“How can I help?”

“Find the dead. Move them away.”

She turned, found Ima-Gun at her shoulder. “Shouldn’t we be helping the living?” she protested.

“If we move the dead, he can find the living faster,” Ima-Gun explained. “He would have to check them, but we can sense them. It’s faster.”

“What about the men still on the field?”

His hand, again on her shoulder. “Their brothers are seeking them out. Trust them, Padawan. They know what they are doing, and they love one another.”

She swallowed hard.

She could sense an empty shell nearby. The decay that had begun, but wouldn’t be noticeable to the non-Force-sensitive for some time yet.

The instant something died it started to decompose.

She crouched down beside the trooper.

Small gnats buzzed around his face, crawling over his lips, his open eyes.

She swept them away, gently closed the eyelids, and looked up to her Master. “Where do we take them?”

He lifted the man into his arms and led Harissa farther back from the battlefield.

There the dead lay in rows much like the wounded, only these lay closer together.

He gently set the body down beside another.

“What’s going to happen to them?” Harissa asked, stunned by just _how many_ there were.

“They’re going to be identified, and then there will be a mass funeral pyre.”

Harissa swallowed hard.

“Listen. I don’t think you can carry them here. So I want you to seek them out, find them for me. I’ll carry them. While I’m doing that, you stay with the living that are close by. See what you can do to comfort them.”

“But first aid—”

“Padawan, you’ll be holding hands as they die.”

The statement was so hard to accept—

But they were already back with the wounded again.

Her Master took another body.

It only took her moments to locate the next, but he wasn’t back yet.

The man lying next to the one she’d found was still breathing.

Barely.

He was missing his legs and his head was severely damaged.

He was moving, so he had to be conscious. _How_ could he be conscious?

Harissa crouched beside him, at a loss.

There was nothing she could do to save him. In the Force, she could sense there was nothing _anyone_ could do to save him.

_“Holding hands as they die.”_

She took his large, calloused hand in hers and held it tight. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

The eye still recognizable as an eye shifted, turned to look at her.

“Shh,” she soothed, afraid to touch the shattered face. She stroked the hand she held. “Shh.”

He tried to speak, but the words were lost in gurgling blood.

_This is so wrong._ So _wrong._

Focusing, she tried to send him calm thoughts. Tried to give him a place of safety.

She didn’t know if it worked or not.

He slipped away, and she had to let go of his hand.

Her Master took him next.

_I can’t do this._

It was tearing her heart out. It was the worst thing she’d ever faced in her life.

_But they’re dying alone. I_ can't  _let that happen._

So she found another corpse.

And another wounded man.

She stroked the hair out of his eyes. Spoke to him. Soothed him. Traced the web tattoo on his face with her fingertip.

This one was taken by his brothers.

Maybe he would live.

_Please live,_ please  _live._

Another dead body. Another man bleeding his life out into the mud.

She lost that one.

But he didn’t die alone.

She just kept moving, from one to another until she looked up and couldn’t see any more.

Turning again, she found her Master. “What now?” she asked, exhausted beyond words.

“Now we go inside, get cleaned up, and you head to the mess to eat.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to make my report and consult with Captain Keeli first.”

Harissa had nothing left in her to argue with, so she followed him.

She hadn’t realized the Republic base was so close.

They’d been fighting on their own doorstep.

Pre-made buildings set together, it was easy to navigate at least.

Ima-Gun showed her to her room and the refresher, gave her directions to the mess.

Alone in the silence, she could smell the gore on her skin, her clothes, in her hair.

In the shower, she scrubbed until her skin burned, but she couldn’t seem to get rid of the death. And here, the horror caught up to her.

She’d kept moving out there, for the sake of the men who were suffering.

But there was no one to be strong for here.

Great heaving sobs wracked her frame as she pulled the last of her hair from what had once been a low bun.

What had she been thinking, agreeing to Padawanship in a war?

This was so much worse than she had ever imagined.

She _should_ have quit the Jedi Order.

There was no way she could handle this.

She pulled the ties out of her Padawan braid, and combed it out with her fingers, trying to rinse the mud and blood from it.

There came a point where she couldn’t stand the water anymore.

Once dry and clothed in her clean tunic and pants, she worked the tangles out of her hair and re-wound it into the bun beneath her ear.

Her fingers re-braided the symbol of her Padawanship, wrapping it in the threads that belonged there.

And then her feet followed Ima-Gun’s directions and led her to the mess.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

It was full of clones, stripped down to their black bodysuits.

She’d thought it would be impossible to eat, but now her stomach rumbled.

Seeing a chrono on the wall, she was shocked by how much time had passed.

She’d missed two meal times, not to mention losing the one prior.

Snagging a tray, she fell in behind one of the troopers.

Fortunately, she’d heard the rumblings around the Temple about how different military rations were from food actually cooked by _people_ , so the unappetizing result wasn’t a shock.

Tray full and no longer sure where to go, Harissa looked around.

Table after table... all filled with clones. Not an unclaimed one in sight.

Crashing someone else’s group wasn’t something she could handle right now.

She was better off eating in her own room.

“Commander! Over here!”

Oh. That meant her.

Harissa turned and saw one of the troopers waving at her.

“You can sit with us!”

Her gut was telling her to leave anyway, but her mind dredged up Ima-Gun’s directive.

Spend time with them. _Know_ them.

So she wound her way through the tables to the one indicated. Four other clones were already sitting there, leaving only the place directly opposite the man who’d called her over. She sat down and let go of her tray. Those two minor accomplishments scored, she looked up.

Swirls, starting at the corner of the clone’s right eye, spiraled down his cheek.

“You’re the one who—”

Had seen her come completely unglued on the battlefield? Who had _picked her up_ and carried her out of harm’s way because she froze up and wasn’t paying attention? Who had felt her pound helplessly on his arm and back with her fists like some powerless, untrained kid? Who had seen the tears, uncontrollable sobs, her nose running freely?

Harissa froze again. She was supposed to be his commanding officer.

Her Master’s words pounded through her head. _“My men reserve respect for those who’ve earned it.”_

The clone didn’t seem to notice her awkward silence. “My pleasure, Commander. Remember my name?”

For a memory so terrifyingly clear— she could still smell the blood, taste the smoke, feel the pain in her ears— it was disturbingly murky.

_You_ have _to remember._

Reaching to the Force for calm, she allowed herself to return to the horror.

And there.

Shivering as she pulled back from something she wanted desperately to leave behind, she met his gaze. “Skid.”

Clamor broke out around the table. Harissa flinched in surprise.

“Pay up, pay up!” one of the men crowed, and a few credits skittered across the table.

_They placed bets as to whether or not I’d remember the name of the man who saved my life._ Should she be saddened, or mortified? Or—

Skid was practically glowing. “Eh. Settle down, would you?” Leaning forward, he winked conspiratorially at Harissa. “These clowns are my squad. We’ve been together since hatching out of growth tubes on Kamino. This one’s Mimic. If you don’t watch out, he’ll have you thinking he’s somebody else.”

“Commander,” Mimic offered, in perfect imitation of his General.

Not good. Mimic’s hair was cut the standard way, with no facial hair, tattoos, or other identifying markers. At all. If he pretended to be one of his brothers, there was no way Harissa was going to be able to tell.

She managed a smile in his direction, and hoped it didn’t look as worried as it felt.

“That one’s Threetu,” Skid continued. “He should be easy to remember.”

The man had _3-TU_ written across his forehead.

_Oh, thank the Force._ Harissa hoped he had it written on his helmet as well. Preferably front, back, and both sides—

Harissa’s gaze, traveling from clone to clone hitched on one face. Tattooed shapes framed it.

Shapes that matched her Master’s facial horns exactly.

_It’s probably rude to stare_ , she scolded herself, feeling off-balance.

“That’s Blinder,” Skid offered, seeing her line of sight. “He’s the best shot of us. Anything comes at him, it goes down with a single blast to the optical sensor. Never wastes a shot, never misses.”

Blinder smiled at her, seeming oblivious to her stare.

Harissa tore her gaze from his face, only to discover that the final clone, the one sitting next to her, had suffered severe damage. Fire must have ravaged his face, the left side of his head, and on down. The mass of scars disappeared into the collar of his body suit, and as Harissa focused on his left hand, she realized it was metal.

Quickly averting her gaze to her food, she felt sick and hoped he couldn’t feel her revulsion, in spite of sitting mere centimeters to her right.

Skid kept on, again without seeming to notice her discomfort. “The handsome specimen beside you is Singe. He’s our demolitions expert. Ever since a little run-in a while back, his name’s become a bit of an inside joke. It wasn’t fire that got him, but acid.”

Harissa’s knotted stomach lurched. She knew she’d visibly paled.

A hand pressed down on her leg, between knee and hip. Looking down, she found robotic fingers.

She sent a quick, fearful glance up into Singe’s face.

“It’s okay to stare, kid,” he said quietly. “I don’t mind.”

“It looks painful,” she somehow managed to choke.

“It isn’t now. Hurt when it happened, sure.” The hand moved, rested on the table beside Singe’s tray. “Nobody could come to get me, and I thought for sure I was dead. The General used the Force to pull me out of there. If you ever see the scarring on his arm, that’s what it’s from. He didn’t leave me behind.”

A little of the twisting in Harissa’s gut eased under the gentle influence of his words.

She forced herself to look at him again.

Instead of being overwhelmed by the overall damage visible, she considered the twisted skin.

It meant something different now than before.

Before, it was a horrible deformity. Something ugly. Something representing pain and fear and the horrors of war.

Now?

Harissa realized it was actually something beautiful.

It represented loyalty. Trust. Selflessness.

Life.

Survival against all odds.

And that wasn’t scary to sit beside. Not at all.

Harissa released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and felt her ramrod-straight back relax just a little. The fear of being her, in a room full of people that she was utterly different from, eased.

The other four clones were eating like nothing had transpired, though they had to have heard and seen it all.

That was a sensitivity Harissa hadn’t expected from men created to kill and be killed. It couldn’t have been something pounded into them with the invasive training they underwent.

They had come up with it on their own.

Ima-Gun was right. They _were_ quick. Very quick.

The rest of the galaxy, assuming these men had less humanity than other humans, than _herself_ ; looking upon them as inferior or somehow less intelligent than other members of their species, was wrong. Horribly wrong.

There was something else, too.

Amongst a family where the tiniest of differences in expression or tone were often all that could tell them apart...

_They must be_ really _good at reading microexpressions and postures_.

They _had_ to perceive far more than the physical about a person in order to function.

_How much do they know about me already? It won’t be just Skid who knows I’m terrified_.

Singe had responded to that fear and in just a few sentences eased it. What a gift to have, in a brotherhood where war was all they’d ever experienced.

These men had seen so much in their short lives. Endured so much.

_Look at them, Harissa. They still laugh. They joke. They find beauty in one another and in life. And they care about other people_.

She could only look back on her conversation with her Master, a few hours ago, in shame. _I was so convinced there was something wrong with them, when what was wrong was with_ me _._

“It’s an honor to meet all of you.” Harissa discovered her voice was strong. Perhaps confident for the first time today. “And Skid, thanks for saving my life.”

She was _not_ going to be ashamed of that.

Skid quirked a care-free smile at her as he forked in another mouthful of food.

“So, bets.” Blinder rubbed his hands together. “How long before Mimic has the Commander’s measure enough to imitate her? Voice, gestures, walking pattern.”

Harissa felt her face heat up.

She had every right to be embarrassed, right? _Wasn't_ it embarrassing to have someone imitate her for the enjoyment of others? Especially men technically under her command?

Thinking back to the battle...

Harissa really couldn’t imagine giving them orders.

_I don’t_ know _anything. I have no_ right _to give orders._

Threetu slapped the table. “Three credits says he’ll have it all by lights-out.”

“Midday meal tomorrow,” Singe offered, metal left hand swiping the credits he’d earned from the last bet off the table.

“An hour.” Skid gave a nod. “I give him another hour.”

Blinder’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Really? It took days for the General. I’m gonna say... two planetary rotations from now, same time.”

“Bets placed,” Mimic murmured, and cracked the first smile Harissa had seen out of him. He rose, a dramatic pushing away from the table.

In an eyeblink, Harissa saw him transition into herself. The way he held his shoulders, his head, his feet. Awkward. Trying to not seem so tall. Full of uncertainty. He walked around their table, a full circuit, keeping utterly silent.

In horror, Harissa realized that the entire mess had fallen quiet and was watching.

Clones nearby pulled Mimic over and pushed him up onto their tabletop.

_They reserve respect for those who’ve earned it._

_I haven’t earned it._

How many of them had seen her meltdown on the battlefield? Seen her desperate, pathetic efforts in the triage lines? Had heard her freeze up in her fighter over the open comm?

This wasn’t treating her like a commanding officer.

_And I deserve it. I shouldn’t be here._

Harissa listened to herself interacting with Ima-Gun, the medic, calling out on the battlefield. Mimic must have been _everywhere_ to have heard all that... but even more amazing was his memory.

If someone had asked Harissa to repeat exactly what she’d said all that crazy day, she wasn’t sure she could have pieced it together as perfectly as Mimic did.

Mostly, it had been her desperate need for explanations and direction. The fear of the day.

And then things turned darker, as Mimic repeated other sentences he’d heard.

Her tear-stained words to the wounded and dying.

It took her right back into the nightmare.

Utter silence lay across the mess.

Harissa couldn’t do anything to keep her face from twisting, and she squeezed her eyes shut as her heart broke all over again.

_If only I had been able to help them..._

Silent tears slipped down her face despite her best efforts.

But it wasn’t like these men _didn't_ already think the worst of her. They’d seen her inability to handle any of this. What reputation was she trying to keep?

And then the words falling on her ears weren’t hers anymore.

At least, she hadn’t _said_ them.

Her eyelids flew open again and she stared at Mimic in horror.

“I don’t want any of you getting hurt because I don’t know what I’m doing. So please, help me. Help me help you. I think it’s an honor to meet you, and I believe in what you’re fighting for. I’m afraid, terrified, but I’m here with you anyway. I don’t feel above you. I’m with you. I value your lives, and I don’t ignore your pain. I will never take your deaths lightly, and I will sit with you and try to make it easier when it’s your time.” Mimic dropped his representation and was himself once more. His next words were delivered in a scathing triumph. “And that’s far more than the politicians who casually decide our fate ever do.”

The mess exploded in yells of agreement and applause.

Someone grabbed Harissa’s arm, and she found herself hauled up onto her table.

And now they all could _see_ her.

She looked over, discovered Mimic was back on the floor. In fact, she couldn’t spot him.

But the clones were still applauding and cheering.

_They weren’t applauding Mimic,_ she realized in shock. _They’re... applauding_ me _._

Why?

Keenly aware of the tears on her face, Harissa swiped at them with her sleeve.

“Speech!” The demand started as one voice, but quickly became a chant.

Harissa held up her hand to try to stop it, and the men fell quiet.

And there she stood.

A sea of faces staring up at her, waiting for her to say something.

This had certainly been a day for terror.

“I think Mimic did my speech for me,” she offered.

Laughter rolled through the room like the gentle roar of an ocean.

“He’s right. I don’t know anything, I don’t have any experience, and I’m scared. I don’t want to let you guys or my new Master down.”

And... she didn’t have anything else to say. So while the clapping gave her an opportunity, she scrambled off the table, managing to lack any and all grace possible.

No sooner was she down, than Skid was on the table. The hush of anticipation returned.

“The General went to choose a Padawan. The General chose well.” He raised his cup in the air. “To the Commander!”

“To the Commander!” the mess called back.

Suddenly sensing her Master, Harissa turned towards the door.

There he stood.

So while the clones were drinking the toast, she slipped through them and sped that direction.

They let her go, and soon Harissa joined her Master.

He was watching the clones, a quiet smile on his face. When his gaze met hers, the smile deepened.

She shut the mess door behind her, giving the two of them the privacy of the empty hallway.

Letting out a big breath, she just listened to the babble of voices coming from the other side of the closed door.

Somehow, through all the utter _lack_ of anything respect-inducing that she’d done today, they had decided to respect her.

And adopt her.

“Does every Padawan go through that?” Harissa asked, staring up into her Master’s eyes.

Her question amused him. “Definitely _not_. You may be the only one. These men are more... open and vocal about who they consider unworthy of their respect and those who they think _are_ worth it than others. That may be my fault.”

“And... do you think you chose well?” Harissa’s heart ached for his answer to be _yes_. “I know I made a lot of mistakes today—”

“Not from where I’m standing.” His expression gentled. “And yes. I’m very pleased with my choice.”

Harissa’s heart thrilled at his acceptance.

The door slid open and revealed Singe, holding a familiar tray of food. “Sorry to interrupt, General. The Commander forgot her dinner.”

Harissa took the tray in amazed silence.

Singe gave a formal nod to Ima-Gun, and returned to his brothers, closing the door behind him.

“Come. Let’s go to your room, Padawan. And you should eat.”

“What about you?”

“Captain Keeli and I already ate.”

Harissa followed him down the hallway and in. Letting her Master take the single chair, Harissa sat on the bunk.

“How was your day?” he asked.

Harissa chewed a mouthful of something pretty unrecognizable, and considered.

She hadn’t had such an emotionally diverse day in... well... _ever_. She had been in the worst place she had ever experienced, but that silent flight with her Master had been one of the best things she’d ever felt. Terror, joy, grief, regret, shame, surprise, acceptance...

How _had_ her day been?

“Full, Master,” she finally decided. “Very full.”

He gave her a nod. “It’s going to receive a little more filling. The carrion avians are swift to gather on this planet. As soon as the identification process is complete— and we’re almost done— we’re going to light the pyre.”

Harissa’s throat constricted and she nearly choked on her food. Forcing it down, she felt the weight of loss. So many lives...

“Feel the pain, Harissa,” Ima-Gun murmured. “Don’t ever grow callous to it. Don’t let it become normal.”

She looked over at him, amazed at how incapacitating the burning in her heart was. It hurt so _much_...

“How do you _live_ with this kind of pain? Knowing more is going to come?” Was it even _possible_?

“By accepting it. Embracing it. Allowing it to pass through. Training yourself to become numb to it may ease the suffering you experience, but it will damage your ability to empathize. It will cripple you in ways far worse than the pain ever will. Others turn to anger to try to lessen the pain. It turns them bitter. Vengeful. They fill themselves with hate. It destroys them. The pain will never destroy you as long as you let it come, let it through, and let it go.”

“Was it wrong for me to forget, for a moment, that those men died?” Harissa set her tray on the floor. She’d consumed about half of what was there, and just couldn’t eat any more. “Because I did forget. They were toasting to me and you seemed happy with me, and it left me. I didn’t feel that pain. They were lying dead out there, and I... _forgot_.” It sickened her to the core.

“Holding on to the pain will harm you. When it leaves, don’t call it back. Don’t try to keep it. It’s not a possession. This war is a terrible thing, but there will be moments, perhaps many of them, where life blazes through. Enjoying the moments of light does not dishonor those who have had it taken from them. The river of your mind and heart, Padawan. Keep it flowing. What comes, comes. What leaves, leaves. That is the nature of emotions. They come, and they go. When we try to force them to do anything else, we harm ourselves or others.”

It sounded right, but it was a little confusing at the same time. “But Jedi aren’t supposed to act out of emotion.”

“What we want isn’t always what’s right. To let go of reason and loyalty to the innocents of the galaxy— and I mean _all_ of them, not just some of them— to further our own interests is the opposite of the Jedi path. Anyone can be a Force user and help people. They may even do immeasurable good. The choice to be a Jedi is the choice to take care of a galaxy. The promise to every innocent alive that you will put _their_ needs above your own. That you will champion them as a whole, and not just the few who are closest to you. That you will protect each one as though they were your dearest friends. _they_ are your family. Your planet. Your responsibility, and they are your focus. A Jedi strips away other loyalties, in order to be focused on those who have no one else to look out for them.”

“So we don’t get distracted.”

Ima-Gun shook his head. “It’s not so much about distraction, as dilution. A private citizen has many responsibilities in a crisis. Responsibility to their planet. Their system. Their family. Their household. The Republic. Their friends. Their lover. Their children. The loyalty to random strangers often comes in low on the list, if it makes the list at all. Having loyalties spread in so many places means they can— and may often— conflict, causing one to have to determine which loyalties are more important than others. It can cause inner conflict, confusion, and doubt when calm would serve them best. It can lead to betrayal of certain loyalties in order to honor other ones. And while good people dither, those who _don't_ have anyone to look out for them suffer. _That_ is why we avoid attachments, Padawan. We have dedicated ourselves to those who have no one.”

“But... aren’t we loyal to the Republic?”

“We are loyal to the galaxy, and its freedom. For thousands of years, the Republic has been the strongest safeguard of freedom, and so we protect it. The day the Republic betrays the galaxy is the day the Jedi are no longer a friend of the Republic.”

“But we answer to the Senate.”

“Are Force-sensitives elected, Harissa?”

Harissa frowned. “I don’t know. I suppose probably, sometimes.”

Ima-Gun smiled at her. “Not into political office. Do people vote on whether a child should be able to manipulate the Force or not?”

“No.”

“Our power isn’t entrusted to us by the people. It’s just something we have. And no matter how good our intentions, if the people have no say in how we shepherd them, then it is not freedom. Democracy exists because the people choose who has power, and those people have power for a limited time. It is the people who decide who serves their planets, their systems. The people determine the Senators. By listening to the Senate, we allow the people we serve to put checks and balances on what we can and can’t do. That’s how we keep ourselves from becoming unintentional and well-meaning tyrants. For Jedi to decide how far Jedi authority should be allowed to go over the average citizen isn’t right. The citizens together should decide that.”

“But the Senate makes mistakes. And there’s corruption.”

“True. But Jedi make mistakes as well. And the corruption is present because the people allow it. It’s their votes, their voice, that directs the Republic. It’s a thousand small choices that lead to self-serving politicians’ rises to power, and it’s a thousand small choices— by the people— that will take them out of power.”

“The Separatists think that the Senate isn’t savable. That it’s too far gone.”

Ima-Gun’s answer was forestalled by his comlink chiming. “General. We’ve completed identification. We’re ready any time you are.”

“I will be right there. Alert the men it’s time.” He stood, and keyed the door open. “Are you ready?”

Harissa stood and gave him a solemn nod. “Experience it. Don’t fight it. But let it go when it leaves.”

She could sense his approval as they left together.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

The pyre was massive. So many bodies, no longer in armor, lay empty and still.

A clone with the _most_ decorated armor Harissa had seen yet was standing there. He wore a kama and pauldron. Before he turned to look at them, Harissa knew who he was.

Captain Keeli.

The man who _had_ been Ima-Gun’s second before she came and displaced him.

The detail on his armor and helmet was impressive. So was the design shaved into one side of his buzzed head.

His face, so similar to his brothers’, was grim.

“Captain,” Ima-Gun greeted him.

“General Di.” His gaze shifted to look Harissa up and down.

She stood very still, feeling unspeakably inadequate.

“Harissa, this is Captain Keeli. Captain, this is Commander Nol.”

“I saw you take out the tanks. You have my thanks.”

“I missed one,” she pointed out, snorting a laugh.

“Everyone misses at times. Except Blinder.”

Ima-Gun chuffed a laugh.

“I met him,” Harissa said, feeling a jolt of accomplishment. She _knew_ who Keeli was talking about.

Keeli’s eyebrows snapped higher on his forehead, and his reserved tension in the Force eased just a little.

_He’s still not sure about me_ , Harissa could see that plain as day. _He’s still worried. That’s smart. I wonder if he knows about my reputation. If he did, he’d have reason to be even_ more _worried about me._

The Captain moved to Ima-Gun’s other side, turning to watch as fire was set to the pyre.

Standing beside her Master as flame claimed broken, lifeless bodies, Harissa watched the older Jedi’s presence in the Force.

Keenly aware of her scrutiny even though her eyes were aimed for the pyre, he lowered his mental shields just about as far as they could go. Harissa had complete access to every subtlety of emotion he experienced as it was happening.

One of the clones was reading off a list of the names of the dead.

Certain names sparked new waves of grief and loss.

_He knew them well,_ she realized.

Ima-Gun didn’t resist the pain. He didn’t fear it. To him, the severe discomfort of it was another experience.

Just another part of being alive.

Harissa tried to let her mind relax into a similar state.

_The pain isn’t something to be afraid of_ , she told herself firmly.

Still her soul shivered away from its cold touch. _But it hurts_.

Taking a deep breath, she nudged her own Force signature. A careful, intentional relaxation here, a preparation against wallowing there.

_Acceptance_ , she thought.

Gentle reassurance touched her mind in the Force.

Ima-Gun saw her efforts.

He understood the difficultly.

And he believed it was worth wading through.

Seeing the beauty of his identity in the Force as he stood here, grieving with his men, Harissa could only agree.

_If I end up half the Jedi he is..._

By the time Harissa wondered if she should hide that yearning in her heart from her Master, it was too late to shield it.

But her admiration didn’t seem to displease him.

The heat of the fire beat against her face.

Some of the clones stood in rigid silence, faces unreadable. Some of them felt empty, in the Force. Others simmered with restrained anger or pain. Some stood with their heads bowed and eyes tight shut, fighting tears.

Still others stood with shoulders back and heads up, the silent tears streaming down their faces, no hint of shame to be found, physically or in the Force.

All of them held their helmets in their hands or under an arm.

In the Force, each life burned brightly. Perhaps even more bright than most non- Force-sensitives she’d come across. A thick band of life, rich and resilient surrounded the dead. And she and her Master were one with that circle.

She could sense their loyalty. It sprang from their deepest core. Loyalty to their brothers. To their Jedi General. To the Republic.

It was so visible that Harissa almost felt like she should be able to reach out and touch its golden surface.

Walking back to her room once the circle had disbanded, she wove her way through dozens of clones.

What would have intimidated her earlier just felt right now.

When eye-contact happened, she gave the man in question a nod instead of avoiding his gaze.

She’d never been happier to see a bed than when she located hers again.

Sitting down, so unspeakably stiff and sore, she heaved out a deep sigh.

And _now_ , finally, the day was done.

Had she been Ima-Gun’s Padawan only for a day? It felt so much longer.

Pulling off her boots, she rubbed her aching feet. She set the comlink on the ledge next to her head, shook her hair out of its bun, and flopped down on the mattress.

Deep, dreamless sleep claimed her in moments.

The sleep shattered in what felt like minutes. Checking the chrono, Harissa discovered it to be hours, but long before the usual call to wake up.

Answering her comlink with a groggy, “This is Padawan Nol,” she rubbed at her face.

“Commander. Just received word from Admiral Dao. Separatist reinforcements have entered the system. The General is prepping your fighters, he wants you to join him immediately.”

Harissa bolted out of bed. “I’ll be right there,” she called into the comm, yanking on her boots and throwing on her belt. Lightsaber. Check. Comlink. Check.

On her way out the door she realized she hadn’t done anything with her hair.

Dashing through the compound at full speed, she tried to twist it up into its usual place, only to find she'd forgotten the band to hold it.

She found her Master already in his ship.

Slinging herself into hers, she closed the hatch and tapped the comm. “Master?”

As the two ships hurtled for the upper atmosphere, Ima-Gun brought her up to speed. “Droid reinforcements in two ships. We cannot let the droids reach the planet. We’ve been hard pressed as it is.”

Harissa could attest to that. Grim determination settled in the pit of her stomach. She was _not_ letting those droids through, so help her Force.

“If landing craft get too close to the droid base down there, the anti-aircraft guns will keep us from being able to get close enough to take them out. We have to get them in space or the upper atmosphere at the latest.”

“What about the big ships?”

“Admiral Dao is going to take the fight to them. He will be managing the capital ship battle while we handle the fighter-to-fighter and the landing craft. Be mindful of your surroundings, and keep your ears open. Feel the battle through the Force.”

“You won’t leave me again, like you did last time?” That feeling of being all alone wasn’t one she wanted to experience again.

“Padawan. I was away from your side for three minutes.”

Wait.

_Three_ ?

That was impossible. It had been a _lifetime_ —

“I know you can do this. You may not know the clones up here, but they’re just as solid as those you’ve met.”

_Alright._ She took a deep breath as they broke from the planet’s atmosphere. _He says I can do it? I can do it._

Clouds of clone fighters were taking off from the Jedi cruiser. Each one had its own decorations. “Glad you could make it, General!” a cheery voice called over the comm.

“Glad to be here, Blake. Let’s remind the droids they should be sorry for coming.”

“Copy that.”

There was a love of battle in that voice that Harissa couldn’t quite understand. Didn’t they know they might die? That their brothers might die?

They had to. This wasn’t their first battle by a long shot.

So... how could they still find enjoyment in this? Was it all fake?

Harissa stretched out to the Force, but found fierce joviality surrounding her. There was dread too. And fear.

It didn’t make much sense to her, but she didn’t have the time to figure it out. Vulture droids and tri-fighters were on the loose, determined to keep her from obliterating the landing craft.

And suddenly, she was done. _Really_ done.

She’d had _enough_ of just barely surviving on a battlefield. She’d had _enough_ of just barely _not_ -losing.

Her focus drove the fear from her mind.

That vulture was dead. It just didn’t know it yet.

And so was that one.

And that one.

And anything that stood in her way of destroying that lander.

The Force took over. Nudging her fighter this way, that. Out of the line of fire, barrel-rolling so her sights could frame another enemy.

She’d never been so one with the Force in a fight before. Not in her fighter training back in the Temple, not in practice duels, and _definitely_ not yesterday.

And then the landing craft she’d been targeting shattered into a million pieces.

Elation surged through her.

_Those_ droids wouldn’t be killing any of the men down on the planet.

_Not today, Skid. Not_ ever.

Cheers over the comm made Harissa realize that the clones were definitely keeping tabs on what she was doing.

Apparently, they liked what they were seeing.

Looking up through her canopy, her heart just about stopped.

Yes. She’d taken out one.

“How many _are_ there?” she breathed.

“Keep focused, Harissa,” Ima-Gun’s voice came back, calm but as focused as he wanted her to be. “One at a time. Go.”

So she went after another one. And another. And another. And another.

She lost count of the vultures she’d vaporized.

In the distance she was vaguely aware of the Jedi cruiser trading fire with the Separatist capital ships, but she had no idea how that front was going.

But according to her Master, Admiral Dao knew what he was doing and could be left to his own strategies.

It was difficult to accept when Dao requested a flight to come assist him, but Harissa just pushed herself harder.

Each lander she destroyed was closer and closer to the planet. It wasn’t just a battle against the droid horde, it was also a battle against time and distance.

And then the first landing ship reached the protection of the ground-based artillery, and Harissa was forced to let it go.

The feeling of helpless fury that blossomed in her heart shocked her. That level of anger and hate was something she’d never experienced before.

“Feel it and let it go, Padawan,” her Master’s voice came over the comm. “Keep moving. Return to orbit.”

“But there’s landers down _here_ I can still—”

“You won’t have time. Come back up and focus on ones you _can_ take out.”

Defeat bitter in her mouth, Harissa obeyed.

By the time she got there, the space debris had multiplied. One of the Separatist ships was no more. The second was on fire and failing. It was trying to disgorge its landers as fast as possible so they wouldn’t be lost when the ship finally blew.

Death spiraled through the Force, needling her.

She wasn’t feeling grief and overwhelming horror now.

She wanted to hunt down every last droid and erase it from existence.

With a pack of clones fanned out to either side and behind her, she proceeded to try just that.

Sensing their fury matching her own, feeling their unity and focus... the sensation of leading that felt very good. It felt very right.

Not in the way that her joint meditation with Ima-Gun on the way to New Draxis had felt, and not in the way standing by his side at the pyre had.

This felt right in a very dark way.

They fought until there was nothing left in orbit, and nothing left in the atmosphere.

Landing craft had gotten through. Too many.

_One_ had been too many.

Following her Master back to the cruiser, she landed beside him.

No sooner was she out of the fighter than she was surrounded by clones. Laughter, shoulder-punching, and praise surrounded her, though no one punched _her_ shoulder, and the praise was directed all over the place, not just to her.

But she wasn’t enjoying it.

She still felt the anger at losing the landing craft.

And... anger at herself. Because she was more angry at losing the landers than for the pilots who died.

She turned, found her Master’s gaze.

She expected him to look disappointed.

She’d been obliterating foes in anger and vengeance, after all.

But he didn’t seem to be upset or unhappy. Just quietly watching her with both eyes and the Force.

_He’s supposed to chide me. Isn’t he supposed to chide me?_

Memory of something he’d said yesterday, a lifetime ago, resurfaced. _“I can promise you, if you come with me, you will make mistakes.”_

And more recently...

_Let it go._

_I think I messed up. But whether I did or didn’t, I need to deal with what’s_ here _now. Leave that back there._

She drew in a deep breath and let it out, thinking of her inner stream. With the exhale, she set the emotions to flowing again.

And now she could feel the enjoyment of the men around her. Every one standing here _didn’t die._

That knowledge lifted her heart. Each one standing here still breathed. Had the possibility of a future. And they had taken out the vast majority of the droids. The reinforcements had been sent because the Separatists didn’t like the droids’ chances against her men. They were right to be afraid. The droids they’d killed in the air now would never hurt another living being. Certainly not the brothers down on the planet’s surface.

And _that_ was worth quite a bit. A smile spread across her face, and she met Ima-Gun’s gaze again. And there. She could see and sense his approval.

_Power isn’t in not making mistakes or making fewer of them. But in keeping forward in spite of them._

Pulling away from the jubilation, she moved to join her Master. “What now?”

He scanned her in the Force, but Harissa wasn’t sure what he was looking for. “Do you need more sleep?”

“No. I’m very much awake.”

He gave her a faint smile. “That’s the adrenaline of battle and victory. Are you sharp? Is your mind clear? If not, I’m going to leave you here to sleep. Be honest with me, Padawan.”

Harissa closed her eyes and tried to feel what her body was telling her. It hadn’t been happy with being jolted awake before the expected time, and _yes_ , she felt the weariness that came from being so focused in battle, but...

“I believe I’m fit for duty, Master.” She met his gaze with a clear conscience. “How can I help?”

He nodded. “We have received reports that some of the debris from destroyed landing craft has caused a lot of damage in the village of Reltu. I’m going to take some of the men, Bandage and his team, and see how we can help. I’ve already made the call, and two gunships are being loaded with relief supplies.”

“Will we take our fighters?” she asked.

“No. We’ll go with the men. I’ve sent a gunship to pick up Bandage and company. They’ll meet us on the ground.”

“Can I help load supplies?”

“Certainly. Follow me.” Ima-Gun started off, but Harissa hesitated.

Glancing back at the pilots who were still in a tight group, she called, “See you later.”

Heads turned and casual salutes were thrown her way.

With a smile, Harissa hastened after Ima-Gun.

By the time they reached the gunships down in the main hangar, the loading had been completed and they were ready to go.

“How often do we help the population?” Harissa asked, voice raised to be heard over the rumble of the engines.

She could sense their movement, and the movement of the two supply-laden consorts. The fact that there were no windows back here in the troop compartment meant she had little else to go on.

“Whenever we can. The fact that we are Generals doesn’t lessen our responsibility as Jedi. It means we have two full-time tasks in the same space of time as before.”

_And with a war, it means the suffering is multiplied exponentially. It’s not just local conflicts and natural disasters and pirates who are causing the trauma now. There’s_ more _trouble than before,_ and _we’re supposed to lead the armies._

It was a sobering realization. _We’re going to wear out._

“Doesn’t that mean that people are suffering because we aren’t focused on them?”

“It does. We need the citizens of the galaxy to step up and help us help them. We need them to help each other.”

Harissa frowned. “Shouldn’t they be doing that anyway?”

Ima-Gun smiled. “It is easy for people to want rescuing instead of rescuing themselves. We try to prioritize, help those who don’t _have_ what it takes to save themselves. But if the average person would take more responsibility for themselves and the people around them, our work load would be cut astronomically. We’d be able to accomplish more, and the overall suffering in the galaxy would ease.”

Harissa shook her head. “Shouldn’t the answer be to mobilize the people, then?”

“Absolutely. We try to help people towards self-sufficiency and awareness of their communities when we’re there helping, but we are present in any given place for only short periods of time. Lasting change has to come from within. It cannot be forced on them from without. We have allies, individuals who are trying to mobilize the people like you suggested. Certain senators have worked tirelessly for that purpose.”

Harissa nodded. There were a few names that often came up in Temple discussions. “You mean like Senator Organa and Senator Amidala?”

“Yes. There are others, but they lead the charge.”

“But I thought that they were against the creation of more clones to help us.” Harissa frowned. “Doesn’t that mean they’re tying our hands behind our backs? The Separatists are continuously manufacturing more and better droids, but whenever we lose a man, there is no one to replace him. We’ll run out of people.”

“That is one way of looking at it. The other is that it takes ten years for a clone to mature. The debates in the Senate about creating more clones isn’t going to help us _now_. It would only be of help if the war is still raging ten years from now and longer.”

Harissa’s soul chilled. _Ten years_ of war?

_Ten_?

It had already been one and a half, and already it seemed like a lifetime. Could this really last that long?

“Creation of more clones would help drag this out, not end it faster.”

“But what if there aren’t enough of us now?” Harissa worried.

He threw her a grim look. “We’ll have to make do with what we have.”

_Can we?_

Another thought surfaced. “I thought the Separatists want to cede from the Senate because the corruption in it hurts the common person.”

“Yes?”

“Then why do they target the senators who _aren’t_ corrupt and who are dedicated to helping the common people? The Separatists have tried to assassinate Senator Amidala for years.”

“It doesn't make sense to me either, Padawan.”

“Even _before_ the war broke out, they were trying to kill her. It’s how the war _started_ , isn’t it? They were going to murder her and two Jedi, and we intervened to stop them? Wasn’t that the first battle?”

“It was.”

“So we didn’t _attack_ them. We were trying to save innocent lives?”

“True.”

“But they used that as an excuse to start a war that is killing millions of the common people they _said_ they wanted to keep from being hurt?”

“Harissa, war is complicated. Yes. There are idealists out there. But the leaders of the Separatist movement were _not_ idealists. Not to begin with. You seem to be aware of Master Kenobi’s report. I can’t imagine you _haven’t_ read it.”

“It’s required reading now, to explain how we got where we are.”

“I would think so. The formation of the Separatist leadership, which he witnessed, was comprised of financial and business concerns. The Techno Union. The Trade Federation. The Banking Clan. The individuals behind this war aren’t fighting because they believe it to be right. I don’t know what Dooku’s motivation is, but Master Yoda reports that he is firmly in the grip of the dark side, and the dark side is accessed only through selfishness the way the light can only be reached through selflessness.”

“The Separatist leadership is just as corrupt and self-serving as the Senate?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Harissa frowned. “Doesn’t that take away their moral high ground?”

“They tried to begin their movement with the murder of one of the few upright politicians because she didn’t agree with them. I’m not sure they ever had moral high ground.”

“Do we?” Harissa studied his face as well as she could in the murky lighting.

“Just like there are multiple reasons why the Separatists are fighting the Republic, there are multiple reasons why the Republic is fighting the Separatists. To assume that the Republic is blameless in this matter would be incorrect. There are good-hearted people on both sides, and there is corruption on both sides.”

“Do they want to just leave us and become their own political entity, or do they want to overthrow the Senate and force everyone to match _their_ way?”

Ima-Gun laughed. “Depends on who you ask. Dooku and Grievous have both made very public statements that they intend to take down the Chancellor and obliterate the Senate. They are the authority over the military side of the Confederacy. I don’t know how much influence Dooku has in their Parliament, but they haven’t come out and contradicted his statements, or disowned Grievous’ atrocities.”

The engines shifted in tone as the gunships set down, a jolt confirming to the occupants that they’d reached ground.

The doors slid open, and Harissa blinked against the morning sunlight.

The four gunships, landed to form the outline of a square, rested in a grassy area in the center of the village. The injured were being tended on cots in the center of the gunship square. She recognized Bandage and a couple of the others from the day before, though she wasn’t sure of names.

A tall light blue Zabrak stood talking with Bandage. As he turned and glanced at the Jedi, Harissa could see a crest tattooed into his forehead.

Ima-Gun made his way over to them, Harissa keeping at his side.

“General. This is Rassid, Head of Reltu. Head Rassid, this is General Di. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have patients to attend to.” Bandage bowed his way out of conversation and back to the wounded.

“Head.” Ima-Gun gave him a formal nod. “I understand the battle brought damage to your village and people. I have brought my men to see what we can do to help.”

“We were lucky; so far, no one has died. There are a few touch-and-go cases, but your medic has better equipment than we do. They just might make it.”

“I’m sorry they were injured in the first place.”

Rassid sighed. “It’s what happens. Comes of being a planet that isn’t important, but is in the way of those planets that _are_. Your war is far from the first here, and it certainly won’t be the last.”

“My reports have been spotty; is it accurate that one of your storehouses was destroyed?”

Rassid’s expression turned grim. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“Maybe we can help with the figuring.” Ima-Gun led them to the second gunship and patted one of the crates it held. “The taste leaves much to be desired, but they only send military rations with military operations.”

Rassid’s eyes widened. “How many of these contain food?”

“All of them. The second gunship has medical supplies, the third blankets and emergency shelters. I didn’t know how much of your village was still standing.”

The relief that spilled across Rassid’s face echoed in the Force, followed by sudden wariness. “And what is it you want in return?”

“Nothing, Head. Now. How can my men and I help?”

“We need to put up a new storehouse to hold this, and clear the rubble out of the roads, fields, and houses. Could your men help with that?”

“Certainly.” Ima-Gun turned to Harissa. “Take the men and go with Head Rassid. I want half of them helping the Reltuns build that new storehouse. The other half can get to work on clearing the major things— if they need to use the gunships for lifting, fine. You can also use the Force to help. Make sure they do things how the Reltuns want them done. We’re here to help, not annoy.”

“Yes, Master,” Harissa returned, trying to look more confident than she felt.

“I’m going to stay here and see if I can nudge those touch-and-go cases in the direction of healing.”

_And with that, I’m now the person in charge._

Nodding for the waiting clones to follow her, she gestured for Rassid to lead the way.

“Have any of you built a barn before?” the Zabrak asked.

There was a long moment of silence before one of the clones answered, “No, Sir. It wasn’t in the manual.”

Muted laughter from his brothers greeted the statement.

“You’ve never built a barn; we’ve never had soldiers give instead of steal. New experiences all around.”

It was easy to see where the storehouse _had been._ Two sturdy buildings stood next to a large plot of charred dirt. The Reltuns were already hard at work, and had cleared the shattered wood away. Large frames lay on the ground, presumably to be the new walls.

Humans, Twi’leks, Rodians, a couple Weequay— Reltu apparently had a diverse population. Harissa noticed two main things about them. All of them appeared male, and all of them had light blue tattooing.

The designs seemed individual, how large and how many varied, and where they were placed was all different, but everyone had at least one.

She split the clones in half, and turned to face those staying.

What should she say?

Did she need to tell them to respect the civilians and pay attention to directions given? Or would that be insulting?

“Master Di said we’re here to help, not annoy.”

Oh. Did that sound like she _expected_ them to misbehave?

“Best behavior, Commander,” one assured her. “Promise.”

“When you get back, you’ll find the best-looking barn in the galaxy,” offered a second.

Relieved, she gave them a nod. “I’ll look forward to it.”

They hadn’t taken offense. They’d understood her.

Rassid led her and the remaining clones around a street corner, and Harissa caught sight of the destruction spread out before her. Several houses had been squashed and the street was almost impassible with giant pieces of metal.

“Is this the worst of it?” Harissa asked.

Rassid gave her a nod. “It’s all of it. Like I said, we were lucky this time.”

More Reltuns were busy here, carrying the rubble away, using their hands, baskets, and small hovercarts.

And all of these, no matter the species, had light blue tattooing.

_And again, no obvious females_.

Well, maybe they were busy doing something else.

“Where do you want all of this moved to?” Harissa asked.

“A lot of it we will cut or melt down into things we can use. That first storehouse you saw is where we sort it.”

“All of it goes there?”

“Correct.”

“And the larger pieces?” She eyed a twisted chunk of a wing, easily the size of one of the tiny houses that lined the street.

“We’ll line them up beside the scrap barn. They’ll be cut down into manageable pieces over the coming months.”

Well, there it was.

“All right, men. Let’s get to it.”

Harissa tried to keep an eye on them, just to make sure everything was okay, but for the most part she was far too busy.

Reaching deep into the Force, she moved the heaviest of the debris onto hovercarts, and then, after they’d been moved to the appointed spot, she used the Force to set them back on the ground.

It was exhausting work, and when the Reltuns called it quits for lunch, she was more than happy to agree.

She found herself sitting beside Rassid on the newly-cleared area of street. Looking around, she could see the clones grouped together, some of the Reltuns joining them. Every few moments laughter rang out, from Clone and Reltun alike.

“Looks like they’re making friends,” she observed.

Rassid followed her glance. “Hm.”

That wasn’t an answer she’d been expecting.

_Alright._ “Where is everybody?”

He threw her a look. “What do you mean?”

“Are all the kids in school? Is that why I’ve seen none of them?”

“No. They’re in hiding.”

Harissa’s eyebrows flew upwards. “In hiding? But the Separatist base isn’t anywhere near here, and the likelihood of their coming _this_ direction when it would hinder their fight with us—”

“They’re not hiding from the droids.”

“Then what are they hiding from?”

Rassid gave her an evaluating stare, and then explained. “We know where the Separatist base is. And the location of yours. As soon as the first gunship was spotted heading this way, our women and children left the village. They’re safe.”

“Well... now that you know it’s _us_ , they can come back.” Harissa bit down on her rations, and marveled at how tiresome they’d become in just twenty-four hours.

“I think they’ll stay right where they are, but thank you.”

Harissa froze. Swallowing, she stared at him. “They’re hiding from _us_. But we came to _help_ you.”

“And haven’t asked for anything in return.”

“Shouldn’t that make us more trustworthy?”

“It makes you different. But there’s one thing _all_ armies have in common, even droid armies. They get bored. They burn our homes, destroy our crops, terrorize our children. Steal whatever catches their fancy. Force us to wait on them. It’s just how armies _are_. Always have been— as far back as the history of warfare goes. And when the soldiers are flesh-and-blood? They don’t just want all of that. They also get drunk. They hurt the men, sometimes kill them for amusement, and they want our women. We learned long ago that if they can’t find them, they can’t hurt them.”

Harissa couldn’t believe her ears. “We’re not like that. I swear. The clones won’t assault _anybody_. It’s safe for your people to come back.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. Oh, I’m sure you mean well. You and your General seem to be the good sort. But this isn’t the first time good military leaders have come to New Draxis. Not even the first time good-hearted soldiers have come. But _no one_ can control their men _all_ the time. No matter how skilled and kind the leadership may be, looting happens. It’s inevitable. We’ve learned how to deal with it.”

“You’ve never had the clone army treat you that way, have you?” she asked, sudden misgivings in her heart.

“We’ve never encountered them before today. It looks like there may be a lot of decent people here. But we haven’t survived as a village for two hundred years because we let down our guard to people who seem decent.” His smile and sense in the Force were genuine. It baffled Harissa. He wasn’t trying to insult her. This was just the way it was for them.

_Our men wouldn’t do any of that. Of course not_.

But... would they?

“You keep talking about war like it happens often for you.” She focused on her food, trying to escape the discomfort gnawing at her gut.

“Yes. There are twenty inhabited planets in our system, and two other systems close by share our seat in the Senate. Most of the wars throughout our history have been internal matters; I’m sure most of the Republic never even knew they were taking place. At other times, outsiders’ wars have come through here. It didn’t matter whose army it was, what faction it represented, what era of past or present. Armies are all the same.

“Over time we learned. There are no large cities on New Draxis, because armies target cities. We keep our population in small communities to protect it, and by keeping things fairly basic, we make sure there isn’t much to tempt armies to come out of their way to get.”

Harissa looked down the street at the drab, simple houses. “That’s sad. That the whole planet has limited itself.”

“It’s necessary.” The Zabrak shrugged. “And it works. Now when disaster strikes, it hits smaller groups. Many of us escape altogether.”

It was a relief to get back to work. It took all of her concentration, which kept her mind off the images trying to form in her head of clones terrorizing occupied areas.

It was late in the afternoon by the time the place had been cleaned up. Many of the houses would need repair or to be rebuilt completely, but that was something the Reltuns could do for themselves.

A barn stood, walls and roof completed, and supply crates stacked inside.

The injured had been returned to their homes and made as comfortable as possible.

The landing area, now lit by the gunships’ headlamps, was empty except for the clones.

Harissa saw her Master shake Rassid’s hand, and then came the signal to load up and out.

Hanging on to the handle overhead as much to keep herself from sitting down and falling asleep as anything else, Harissa stifled a yawn.

“Where are we going?” she asked, then wondered if she’d spoken loudly enough to be heard.

“Back to base to catch some sleep while we can.”

“Are there any battles scheduled?”

Ima-Gun chuckled. “Maybe we’ll get to sleep through the night. You’ve earned it. I have a question for you. Today, you found it. What leads you to anger. What was it?”

Harissa frowned and shook her head. “I don’t know, Master.”

“Was it fear? Was it pain— perhaps not physical, but the pain of loss?”

“I was failing. People were going to die because I was failing.”

Ima-Gun studied her. “Was that really it? I seem to remember you telling me that for years you have felt that deaths were your responsibility. You’ve lived with that weight a very long time. What was different about today?”

Harissa shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Think about it. You need to figure that out so you can be prepared for it next time it hits.”

“Yes, Master.”

The gunships set down just long enough for Jedi and clones to pile out, and then took off to return to their roosts in the cruiser.

On her way to her room, Harissa ran into a familiar face. “Hi, Skid. How was your day?”

“Very boring. The boys and I have been playing card games since breakfast.”

Harissa stared at him in amazement.

Skid laughed. “And _you've_ been working your hands to the bone, no doubt. That’s the way it goes. Some fight for their lives while others count the tic marks on Blinder’s trophy list. And sometimes nobody fights. It’s just hours of quiet.”

“I could use some of that. I’d sleep.”

“Off you go, then. You look about ready to keel over.”

“I feel it.” Harissa pushed herself on down the hall.

This time, when she fell into bed, she left her boots and belt on, just in case. If called in the middle of the night, she didn’t think she’d have what it took to to put them back on.

Kessel, she wasn’t sure she had enough energy to take them _off_ —

And then she was gone.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

When she woke up, something felt off.

The fact that she wasn’t tired felt strange, but that wasn’t it.

Sitting up and stretching, she suddenly regretted not having undressed the night before. Ah, well. Those discomforts would work themselves out, no doubt.

And wow, was she sore from the activity from the last two days. Impressively sore.

Checking her chrono, a jolt of panic zipped through her. It was a full standard hour past rising time.

_That's_ what was wrong. Her inner clock had been trying to warn her, but she’d been too tired to listen.

This time she managed to grab her hair tie as she bolted out the door. “Master?” she commed. “Where are you? I’m sorry, I just woke up—”

“Easy, Padawan. I let you sleep in.”

“But isn’t there something going on? Surely there’s something—” She rounded the corner and found herself face-to-face with her Master.

“No, Harissa. No battles yet.”

“But droids don’t have to rest. So what are they doing?”

Ima-Gun shook his head. “Our scouts are in place. As soon as the droids make a move, we’ll know. For now we rest, and wait.”

Harissa twisted her hair up into its low bun and secured it. “So what do we do in the meantime?”

Now he smiled at her. “Rest and wait,” he repeated.

“But there’s got to be people to help and—”

“Harissa? Today we relax. At least until an emergency comes up.”

Harissa frowned. “But... normally we don’t have time for everything. Now we have time.”

“It’s the way war works. We’re not moving to a new location, and we’re not going after the droids.”

“Shouldn’t we press our advantage?”

“We really don’t have one, and many of the men are in bacta tanks. It’s time to regroup and heal.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Harissa asked, baffled.

“Spend time with the men.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I intend to meditate this morning, and then use the afternoon to read reports from other Jedi across the war effort.”

“But you want me with the men?”

“I already know we work well together, and if I come across something crucial, I can always have you read that specific document.”

“Alright.” Harissa wondered if she looked as lost as she felt.

She was still standing there thirty seconds later, her Master long gone, just wondering _what_ to do next.

_Skid said they were bored all day, so there’s no rush for me to get to them. Shower first, then._

She cleaned herself and her clothes, took the time to put her hair up neatly, and to brush the dried mud from her boots and belt.

She decided to wait on polishing her lightsaber. That was something she could do if boredom hit later.

Wandering from her room to the mess, she discovered the tables had been shoved aside to clear the center of the room.

There, at four dejarik boards, eight clones sat utterly focused.

“Commander.”

Harissa glanced to her right, saw Skid. “Hey. Tournament?”

“Whole barracks. No one excluded.” He grinned at her. “We’re in the first level of the elimination. Ready to show us how good you are?”

Harissa shrugged. “When’s my turn?”

“Hoped you’d say that.” He sounded as pleased as he looked.

Harissa’s gaze, sweeping across the room, snagged on a table that wasn’t stacked with the others. A clone sat at it, drawing. There was a stack of flimsiplast sheets on the table, and he seemed to be working his way through it. What stood out to her most, however, was his head.

Cleanshaven face. Head of the same, except for a thick strip running down the center from front to back. That hair was formed into five spikes, twenty centimeters in length each, standing out from his scalp in stiff precision.

“How does he fit that under his helmet?” Harissa demanded in shock.

Skid glanced over. “Oh. You haven’t seen Sketch before? You have to meet.” He led her through the crowd of clones intent on the dejarik games, and over to the table.

“Sketch. The Commander wants to know how you get your head in your bucket.”

Familiar, yet unknown brown eyes looked up at her. “Through the opening,” he deadpanned.

Harissa smiled, feeling a bit sheepish.

“He wears it flat back and tied when on duty. Off-duty is another matter.”

Sketch shrugged, his gaze dropping to his work again. “Some things are just important in life.”

Harissa inspected what he was drawing. A border of dark brown swirls on a blank flimsi. The Padawan immediately recognized the style that was used all over ships, skin, and even shaved into hair.

“So you do all the artwork?” she guessed.

“Most of the big things,” he murmured, gaze still focused. “But everyone doodles.”

“He’s also our best dejarik player. He won’t hit the boards until the final round. He’ll only play whoever beats the rest of the barracks.”

The tiniest hint of a smile quirked Sketch’s lip.

“Does he do the tattoos as well?” Harissa asked.

Sketch answered before Skid had a chance to. “I draw the designs on. Most of the time they get inked by Threetu.”

Instantly, Harissa’s mind offered up an image of the clone specified. _I’m going to figure this out._

“Who does the Captain’s hair?” she wondered. “And the others’? I’ve seen a lot of people with designs in their hair.”

“Hair tattoos,” Sketch offered, leaning back from the shoulder plate. “Sometimes they have me draw a design out as a pattern for them to follow, but they do them to each other. They have to be touched up daily or the image gets lost.”

A clone with dark green hair stepped forward and claimed Sketch’s flimsi. As he walked away, others moved close to him to inspect the completed decoration.

“You guys spend a lot of time on your personal appearance,” Harissa observed, glancing around. Hair, mostly black, sometimes dyed or highlighted or tipped with dark jewel tones. The cuts were even more diverse than the colors, and the intricacies included facial hair.

“What else are you supposed to do while waiting for the next round of mayhem?” Sketch snapped his fingers.

In response, another clone stepped forward, snagged a sheet of flimsiplast from the stack, and placed it in front of Sketch. “Jesp.”

That broke Sketch’s calm demeanor. He stared up at his brother in amazement. “ _Another one_?”

Harissa considered the newcomer. His hair was regulation cut, and the only tattooing Harissa could see was a series of diamonds on the back of his hands.

_Do_ not _get him confused with Mimic._

“When are you going to let me make you some pin-up art of her? Relaxing? Dancing? At least _smirking_ —”

“No.” His brother’s eyes flashed. “Just a close-up on her face. That quiet, _kind_ smile she has.”

Sketch shrugged. “I’ve gotten really good at drawing her, Ced. Maybe you could walk down to Kertu and find some other pretty—”

Ced stiffened, and Harissa could see he felt hurt.

Sketch obviously saw it too. “Sorry, brother. Scrolling around the edge?”

He received a nod.

As Ced turned to go, Sketch stayed him with a question. “Why don’t I also draw a picture of you? We can find some way to send it to her?”

Harissa watched Ced’s jaw work.

“Why bother? I’m probably going to die soon anyway.”

She studied him in the Force. Here was a clone who _hadn't_ been able to hold on to his sense of light and humor.

No.

There was no way she was going to get him mixed up with Mimic, even if both were in full and identical armor. Not when she looked at them in the Force.

“Don’t talk like that,” one of the clones standing near chided. It might have sounded curt, but Harissa could see the concern in his face.

“The rest of my squad’s gone.” Ced shrugged. “It figures I’m next.”

Sketch ignored the dark discussion strain. “Maybe she’s thinking about you as much as you do of her.”

Skid leaned close and whispered in Harissa’s ear, “Met a girl back when we were stationed on the other side of the planet.”

_He’s in love_ , Harissa realized. Three days ago that would have been shocking.

Now, it made sense.

“Hopefully she _isn't_. It’s not like we’re ever going back. And when I die, who’s going to tell her? She’d never know. It’s better this way, Sketch, so don’t get any clever ideas about doing something behind my back.”

Harissa was pretty sure she _should_ stay out of it, but just couldn’t bring herself to. “What if you survive the war? You could go back to her. You could have a farm. A family.”

The sudden turning of heads in her direction revealed just how many clones who hadn’t _looked_ like they were paying attention _had been_.

And all of them looked shocked.

Ced slowly turned to face her. “What are you talking about?”

“Did she show signs of being interested in you?”

Ced shrugged, but his brothers were nodding vigorously all around him.

“Oh, yeah,” one chimed in. “She cried when he left. Came out to watch us leave. Gave him a necklace she’d made. Said she’d never forget him. And she _kissed him_.”

“Shut up, Kenn,” Ced growled. “Nobody would want me.”

Harissa shook her head. “I don’t believe that.”

“I’m not even a real human. I’m just a clone.”

“You are _too_ a _real_ human,” Harissa shot back. “Just as real as I am. And when this war is over, you’re going to have your life spread out in front of you. If you want a life with her, then fight for it. Don’t go out there and expect to die. Tell the droids with every blaster shot that you _are_ going to live, you _are_ going to make it back to her, and you _are_ going to have a life beyond this war.”

Skid whistled. “How long have you known General Di? Because you sound just like him.”

Ced’s shoulders drooped. “It’s not fair to ask her to wait for me. I don’t even know that I’m coming back.”

“It’s _unfair_ to _not_ ask her. That should be her choice. If she wants to wait for you, she should be allowed to do so. If you want her, tell her so. Don’t leave her wondering. What’s not fair would be taking that choice away from her.”

Sketch grabbed a sheet of flimsi from the stack and shoved it in Ced’s direction. “Write her a letter. I’ll draw. We’ll figure out a way to get it to her.”

Ced stared at the flimsi for a long moment.

Behind her back, Harissa could hear loud cheers and booing as the tournament continued. In spite of it, in this corner all was still.

Ced accepted the sheet and looked down at it.

Harissa could sense hope stirring in his heart, a ray of light trying to work its way through the desolate shadows. _He’s lost so much already..._

“I’ve never written a letter before.”

Sketch laughed. “Have any of us? You’ll figure it out. Maybe the Commander will help.”

Panic jolted her. “Me? I’ve never written that kind of letter before _either_ —”

But they were looking at her expectantly.

“I don’t know what to do,” she protested. “I’m _not_ someone to consult about love—”

“You know more than we do,” Skid pointed out. “The fact you convinced Ced to make contact proves that.”

_Oh, sweet Force._

“I don’t know— maybe tell her you can’t stop thinking about her? That you wish the war was over so you could come back to her, and that you plan to do so when it is?”

It was scary how approving the clones were of her suggestions. Apparently her words made sense to _them_.

Whether it was good advice or not, Harissa had no idea. She hoped it was.

_“It pleases me when they express their individuality. I want them to dream.”_

Was this what her Master had in mind when he’d said that?

The table’s contents were rearranged, stacked more carefully in order to provide room for Ced and his letter. Sketch was already putting his brother on flimsi, and others crowded around to watch both endeavors.

“Dear Jesp,” Kenn directed.

Ced frowned. “Is that how it’s supposed to begin?”

“It’s how all letters begin,” Kenn assured him.

Other brothers disagreed.

It resulted in an appeal to Harissa.

“I’ve never _written_ a letter,” she pleaded. “I’ve only ever written _reports_!”

Skid shrugged. “That’s the same ship we’re in. Except, you’ve probably _read_ some letters, and we haven’t.”

“I’ve never had any sent to me.”

“But you’ve read _other_ people’s letters, right?” Kenn tapped the flimsi with his fingertip. “I’m right, aren’t I? It needs to start with _Dear Jesp_.”

Thus cornered, Harissa raised her hands in helpless bewilderment. “Sure. Why not. Sounds good to me.”

“Commander Nol and Ned!”

Harissa spun around to see that the chairs around one dejarik board had been abandoned.

_Thank the Force._

“Sorry, got to go,” she offered over her shoulder as she sped away.

Her opponent— who had to be Ned— was already sitting by the time she reached her chair. He cracked his knuckles, his gaze a challenging stare straight into her eyes.

Somehow managing to not let her own gaze get trapped by his, Harissa realized his hair appeared to be about the same length as hers, and was also worn in a low bun, though his was at the center of the nape of his neck as opposed to just behind an ear. The words _Droid’s Bane_ were tattooed into his forehead in beautiful calligraphy. Like all of the clones’ tattoos, the words were a couple shades darker than Ned’s skin tone.

“Begin.”

Harissa wasn’t even sure who was officiating. _Somebody_ was keeping track of all this.

Instead of figuring that out, she focused on the first move Ned made.

It surprised her. It was aggressive, risky, bold. Either he had a strategy up his sleeve she’d never encountered before, or he played haphazardly.

And from the keen gleam in his eye, and how very still his mind felt in the Force....

Harissa was guessing it wasn’t random.

This wasn’t going to be an easy game to win.

She tuned out the clamor of the spectators, focusing entirely on the game in front of her as turn after turn moved the holographic monsters in a lethal dance growing more complicated by the minute.

She won.

Given the level of effort it had required, it felt like an accomplishment.

Falling back to the spectator lines, she watched with far more interest now as the elimination process continued.

Those who were mediocre at the game had been weeded out. The rest were disturbingly good.

_I’m going to have to be better, or I’m not going to make it to the round with Sketch._

Now _there_ was a thought.

Three days ago she would have thought it ridiculous that clones might be able to out-think and out-strategize her.

_Jedi and clone. We’re well matched_ , she realized. Jedi might have more life experience and more raw power, but the clones seemed to be doing just fine in keeping up.

And then she was sitting at one of the tables again, facing another brown-eyed, square-jawed soldier.

Again she beat him.

And the next time... and the next.

Realizing she felt famished, she snagged rations and ate while standing and waiting for her next turn.

Two rounds later she glanced at her chrono.

It surprised her to see that they were well into the evening.

_No wonder I was so hungry. I missed lunch and went right through dinner!_

And then it was just Harissa standing in the center of the room.

And that’s when Sketch stood up.

Everyone backed away.

Harissa could see that his table was almost empty.

He stalked forward with the grace of some giant feline.

Without a word, he sat at the dejarik board, and looked up at her.

She’d made it to the final round.

_Just barely._

The mess hall was utterly silent as the two began. The only sounds to be heard came from the game pieces themselves.

Harissa discovered that Sketch was just as focused when he played dejarik as when he was drawing.

And it showed.

Harissa discovered that there was a _reason_ why Sketch didn’t play the other rounds. There was simply no _point_ in doing so.

She wasn’t surprised when he beat her soundly. Just a little breathtaken.

And stunned.

_Was it difficult at_ all _for him to win against me?_

It sure hadn’t seemed like it.

Looking into his cool gaze, she couldn’t sense any exultation in him. Just a quiet sense of confidence in his own skill levels.

_This man knows himself. Knows what he can ask of his body and mind, and just how far he can push both._

She tried to think of a single Padawan she knew who understood their own self as well as this clone did.

She couldn’t.

It sure wasn’t Harissa _herself_.

She stretched out her hand over the board littered with her dead pieces. “Good game. You might think about testing yourself against the teams that go across the galaxy doing this. I think you’d give them a run for their money. Kessel, you might just defeat them flat.”

He smiled.

Harissa could sense his soul treasuring the praise, as well as his pleasure in the fact that he had measured himself against a Jedi and done well.

It just reinforced what she’d already seen.

The clones were very responsive to their Jedi.

_They’re almost like children._

The memory that they _were_ twelve years old, and that they hadn’t _had_ any parental figures _whatsoever_ sobered her.

_Master Di is the closest thing they have to a father._

No wonder he was investing so heavily in their growth.

_Somebody_ needed to.

She wasn’t sure what the determination to help made her. She was beginning to feel that they were equals... but there had been a few moments with Ced where the clones’ confidence in her greater knowledge had been downright scary.

Harissa started the applause for Sketch, since it wasn’t originating on its own. Every other round had been greeted with heavy approval, except for this one.

She could almost sense them wondering if it was acceptable for one of their own to trounce their commanding officer.

With her clapping, the last shreds of unsurety fled, and the celebration of Sketch commenced.

It just confirmed her earlier musings.

There was a fierce determination for self-identity here... and also a need for approval from the people they looked up to.

It was time to call it a night.

She was on her way out to her room when she was ambushed.

Sketch, Kenn, Ced, Skid, and several of the others from earlier gathered around her as she was handed two flimsi sheets.

Acutely conscious of their studying gazes, she inspected Sketch’s portrait first.

“Perfect. I like that little smile you gave him.”

“ _See_?” Kenn elbowed Ced. “Told you.”

Harissa bit the inside of her cheek. This was so different from what she’d expected from a military setting.

Ced’s handwriting was neat, precise, and his sentences marched evenly across the page, despite the fact he hadn’t used a straight edge.

_Steady hand and good aim._

It made her wonder if Blinder’s writing would surpass even this, given he was the best shot in the 337th Battalion.

“ _Dear Jesp._ ”

The clones huddled around her fell silent, gazes locked on her face.

_An experience. This is an experience. It’s not scary. Feel the churning, let it go—_

“ _I can’t stop thinking about you. I keep seeing your smile._ ”

“Sketch insisted on that bit,” Ced broke in, sounding nervous.

Sketch tilted his head. “He always insists on the smile in the drawings. Figured that meant it was important.”

Harissa gave an encouraging nod and smile and kept reading. “ _I wish this war was over, so I could come back to you. My General and my Commander tell me I need to think beyond the war. That some day it will be over. They ask me where I want to go and what I want to see when that time comes. I want to find you. I want to see you. When I’m pinned down under heavy fire, I think about the kiss you gave me. It makes me strong._ ”

“I told him he had to talk about the kiss,” Kenn interrupted.

Ced looked disgruntled. “Yes, yes. To let her know I liked it. You said that before. But the _it makes me strong_ bit is just plain wrong. I’m strong _anyway_. I don’t see why you were so insistent—”

“Women like that sort of thing.” Kenn gave him a superior, knowing scowl. “Trust me.”

Ced raised his eyebrows. “And how would _you_ know?”

“I _pay attention_ to how civvies behave.”

That lost Harissa. “Civvies?”

“Civilians,” Skid murmured in explanation.

Sketch sighed. “They keep going on about it. I told them it was probably better to talk to a girl and find out.”

It took Harissa half a second to realize that the only female they really had any contact with was _herself_.

“I’ve never kissed anybody before,” she hastened to point out.

That didn’t dissuade Kenn. “Fine. But would a girl _like_ what we wrote?”

Harissa glanced down at the words again, at a loss. “I don’t know... maybe? Probably? Yes? It sounds very poetic?”

“Poetry. Another thing girls like,” Kenn announced.

“I’m still not sure he knows what he’s talking about,” Ced grumbled.

“Keep going.” Skid nudged her, nodding to the paper. “It’s not done yet.”

“ _When the war is over, I will come back and find you. I hope you’ll remember me. CT9234, Ced._ ” Harissa looked up into the waiting, expectant faces. “It looks like a fine letter to me. And I like the art around the edges.”

“That happened when we got stumped,” Kenn worried. “It just sort of happens. Sketch started it, and now we draw those spirals everywhere. You don’t think she’ll mind?”

“I think they’re beautiful.” Harissa shrugged, and held the letter and portrait out towards Ced.

Relieved smiles splashed across previously concerned faces.

“How are we going to send it?” Ced shook his head. “The scouts don’t go out that way.”

“I have an idea about that.” Skid took the flimsis from Harissa’s hand. “I know how to get them there.”

That seemed to settle it, and just as quickly as the group had formed, it dispersed.

Harissa found herself standing alone with Skid.

“Did you really think the letter was good?” he asked quietly.

She looked over into his eyes. “Yes. They took what I’d suggested, but they didn’t confine themselves to it. It came out of their hearts. I think Jesp will feel that.”

“Do you think it will be enough?”

“Enough to do what?” Harissa studied his face.

“Make her wait.” Skid shrugged. “I’ve noticed that civvies aren’t very patient. And I’ve heard about the debates in the Senate. This war could easily last another ten years or more. The Seppies keep making more droids. We can’t get rid of the factories fast enough.”

Harissa considered his question.

It was a valid point. Most of the _civvies_ she’d seen hadn’t been so great with romances built around patience and distance. They grew bored. Forgot. Lost faith. Decided to go for something close by and immediate rather than someone they could only hear from every few months or years.

How would Jesp and Ced do?

“Nothing can _make_ her wait, Skid.” Harissa’s gaze sought out Ced. He’d found a seat at a table and was taking his blaster apart, cleaning each piece. The table was surrounded by brothers doing the same thing. From this distance she couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but there was a continuous murmur of conversation. “But Ced is giving her the opportunity to. That’s all you can ever do. Give people a chance.”

Skid didn’t respond, his expression distant, his mind clearly lost in thought.

Harissa could feel the magnetic pull of her bed. She lightly clapped Skid on the shoulder. “I’m going to get some sleep. See you tomorrow.”

He nodded absently, and she slipped out of the mess hall.

Strange how its chaos and crowd had become a familiar sensation. It had been so foreign when she’d first entered, and now it felt comfortable.

Harissa looked around her room as the door slid shut behind her.

Everything was so plain. Exactly the same as the rest of the base.

She thought about the pictures hung up on the walls of the mess. Portraits, pin-ups, intricate patterns...

Her own room felt empty and lifeless.

There was a small cabinet of standard-issue war supplies. Rummaging through it, she found a thick marking pen. Dark brown— the 337th’s color.

Somehow she doubted that they’d been intended for art when they’d been issued.

For a long time she just looked at it.

Then, once again at a loss, she set it back in its place.

This time she undressed, though she made sure to leave everything within arm’s reach should she be called in the middle of the night.

As Harissa fell asleep, she realized that she hadn’t thought about Ima-Gun’s anger question since he’d asked it the night before.

_I need to think about it..._

And then she wasn’t thinking at all.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

Since she hadn’t been called, Harissa took a leisurely shower in the morning, and then headed for the mess hall. She discovered that her Master and his Captain were already present and in the middle of breakfast, seated side-by-side.

She saw Keeli eye her again, that worried, unconvinced look in his face.

It made her feel small and inadequate.

_I didn’t mean to steal your place,_ she inwardly sighed. _I’m more than happy to share my Master with you._

Ima-Gun smiled, greeting her with his eyes and in the Force.

After she retrieved her food, she was tempted to go find Sketch or Ced or Kenn or Skid and his squad. She didn’t really want to face up to Keeli.

He seemed... so much more stern than his brothers. Like the weight of it all rested more heavily on him. His armor wouldn’t suggest it, and his hair sure didn’t, but she hadn’t seen him take part in his men’s diversions.

But... her Master hadn’t said to befriend a small handful and ignore the rest. And the Captain of the 337th wasn’t someone she could afford to avoid. They would have to fight side-by-side. Quite possibly soon. She couldn’t let the gentleness of yesterday lull her into forgetfulness about what they were waiting for.

So, attempting to embrace her discomfort, she sat down opposite her Master, keenly aware of Keeli’s gaze on her face.

“I heard that you nearly beat Sketch in dejarik,” Ima-Gun offered.

Harissa smiled. “Actually... there was no way I was going to win. He trounced me solidly. The men were just being overly kind if you heard otherwise.”

Keeli’s scrutiny tightened, like he was trying to see through her.

Did he think this was false modesty?

Movement turned Harissa’s attention elsewhere.

Skid, Threetu, Mimic, Blinder, and Singe had gathered at the end of the table.

“General.”

Harissa wasn’t surprised to see Skid taking the role of spokesperson.

“Since all’s still quiet, we were wondering if we could take the Commander down to see the Farmer’s family.”

Ima-Gun glanced from Harissa to Skid. “Does this have something to do with a certain letter I’m hearing about?”

Concerned, Harissa studied her Master in the Force. He didn’t seem upset, so she relaxed.

“Yes, Sir.”

Ima-Gun gave him a nod. “Keep your comlinks on. We’ll call if we need you. Take your armor and blasters just in case. Be back by lights-out at the latest.”

A grin spread across Skid’s face. “Sir, yes Sir.”

Harissa finished breakfast, relieved for an excuse to escape Keeli’s distrustful intensity, dropped off her tray and followed Skid’s squad out of the mess hall.

They moved beyond the landing areas, out of the protective wall.

Harissa could see the large blackened area where the pyre had been, and to her right she could see the battlefield that had tested her so severely.

Skid turned to the left and led her across the long grasses and into the trees. “I was out here patrolling four months ago, heard a noise that didn’t belong. I discovered a farmer. His hovercart’s repulsor had died, and it was stuck in a ditch. He couldn’t get it out by himself, so I called these jokers to come help us get it back home. We get it there, and Threetu fixes the repulsor—”

“Threetu can fix anything,” Singe interrupted.

“—and then the farmer and his wife insist we stay to dinner. Amazing what they cook. Amazing. That stuff is so different from military rations, you wouldn’t believe. So we sat around eating and talking, and their kids loved Mimic—”

“And Threetu, and Singe, and _you_.” This time it was Blinder interrupting. “We sort of ended up staying all evening. They invited us to come visit them again. And then again and again.”

“You said that was four months ago?” Harissa asked, deeply taken by the scents of the trees and grass beneath her feet. Life was so strong here, so vibrant. “So how long have you been here?”

“Four months.” Skid ducked under a low-hanging branch.

The number seemed very slow to Harissa. “In this one base?”

“Yep. Haven’t moved. We had a couple other sites before that, on the other side of the planet,” Threetu explained. “That’s where Ced met Jesp.”

Harissa frowned in concentration. “No. Threetu, you weren’t _there_ during the whole letter-writing discussion, at least, not the two times _I_ was involved.”

“News travels fast.” Threetu sent her an impish grin.

Spilling through a break in the trees, Harissa found herself looking at a small farmhouse with fields behind and to one side of it, the forest corralling the front and other side.

That first battle had practically been on these people’s doorstep.

_What if we’d lost that day?_

It wasn’t a pretty picture.

A few meters from the house stood a well. Harissa could see a man and a little boy drawing water from it.

The kid turned, and Harissa saw the sun glint off Zabrak-looking horns on his bare little head. Seeing them, the boy’s face lit up. “Daddy! Daddy! Look!”

The father, human, his skin a light brown and his long black hair tied back out of his face, looked up.

Harissa could sense how pleased he was to see them.

The kid hurtled toward them and lunged for Skid. Slamming into him, thin arms wrapped around his thigh. “Skid!”

Skid rubbed his palm on the top of the boy’s head between the horns. “Hey! Good to see you.”

The child made his way around, hugging each of the troopers before coming to stand in front of Harissa.

“Who’s this?” he asked, staring up at her.

“This is the Commander,” Skid explained.

“You’ve never talked about her before.”

“That’s because she’s new. It’s her fourth day here.”

“What’s her name?”

“I’m Padawan Harissa Nol.”

The kid frowned. “I thought you said she was a Commander.”

Threetu shrugged. “Padawan, Commander. Commander, Padawan. It’s the same thing. Commanders follow the Generals around and learn everything they can from them. Generals look out for the Commanders and teach them everything.”

_I wonder if that counts for a_ Captain _if there_ wasn't _a Jedi Commander between them and their General._

Maybe it wasn’t just his place in the authority structure that she’d disrupted, but his relationship with General Di.

_I hope not._

She needed to find some way to make sure he didn’t feel threatened by her.

But how?

“So Commander, this is Wek.”

Harissa smiled at the boy. “I like your farm.”

“We’re trying to get the harvest in,” he announced. “It’s the last of it. If we work hard today, maybe it’ll be done by tomorrow. That’s what Dad says.”

The man reached them. “Glad you boys could make it.”

“Dav, this is Commander Nol. Commander, Dav Li.” Skid gestured to both of them in turn.

Harissa smiled. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Are you here for a social call, or can we put you to work?” Dav asked.

Skid shrugged. “Either.”

“Wek is right, but he left out a bit. We _need_ to get the bales in today, before the rain hits. I have no doubt we can accomplish it if you’re willing to assist.”

Skid looked to Harissa, apparently expecting her to take the lead all of a sudden.

“We have all day unless something comes up and we get called back. How can we help?” Harissa could sense Skid’s approval... and was that... _pride_?

_Was that a test? Did I just confirm to him that I am what he thinks I am?_

It was a curious train of thought, but one quickly lost as she discovered that stacking bales of grain stalks was a serious workout.

Wek slowly drove the hovercart, the trailer following behind. Dav stood on the back of the hovercart, Skid on the trailer.

Fanned out, Harissa, the other clones, and the rest of the Farmer’s family gathered the bales one at a time and hauled them to the moving target. They would boost the bales up to the waiting hands of Skid or Dav, who then settled them into the ever-growing stacks.

Harissa had been introduced to the other family members, but between the physical effort of carrying the stalk bales and the distance involved in fanning out to collect them, conversation became impractical. Harissa resigned herself to watching the farmers as best as she could now, and talking later.

They had this process down to a science.

Berri, the wife and mother, was a female Zabrak, which explained Wek’s horns. The nut-brown of her skin was traced with a web of purple tattoos in traditional Zabrak patterns, similar to her son’s.

Her youngest, Harissa guessed his age to be about three, was tied to her back in a sling. Lissim, the kid’s name was. He was happily singing to himself as his mother bucked bales. Harissa couldn’t help occasionally throwing her admiring glances.

Berri was not just keeping up with the clones. She was _outpacing_ them, in spite of the burden on her back. Given the fact that the clones kept themselves at peak physical fitness, Harissa could only guess how strenuous farming had to be here.

Neivi, the ten year old girl, took after her father. She looked human except for the Zabrak tattoos— also in purple— that covered her face like the rest of her siblings’. Occasionally a bale burst apart when someone tried to pick it up. Neivi flitted here and there, gathering up the loose stalks and running them back to the barn.

That left Teza. Harissa found herself working next to the eldest Li child, who, like her sister, looked human.

Harissa had been told, in the mad flurry of introductions, that Teza was seventeen standard years old.

_Three years older than me._

Harissa was familiar with what _Padawans_ were like at that age.

She’d never experienced a non-Jedi of comparable age before. Oh, she’d _seen_ them, of course. She’d just never worked alongside one before.

Harissa had asked a few questions over the course of moving bales, but Teza seemed determined to ignore her. The Padawan could sense hostility and an impression of being forced against her will.

_She doesn’t want to be out here working with us._

An authority figure must have insisted.

Paying attention to the waves emanating from the young farmer, Harissa determined that she wasn’t _afraid_ of the clones and Jedi. She just didn’t want to have anything to do with them.

_I wonder why._

Harissa didn’t have the chance to ask when the break was called. Teza and Neivi went to the house to bring back lunch, but only Neivi returned.

Whatever was bothering the eldest Li certainly didn’t trouble the younger ones. Wek, Neivi, and Lisim seemed enthralled by the clones, and Harissa couldn’t help but notice how good they were with the kids.

Was it because there wasn’t _really_ that much of an age difference?

Harissa considered what she knew of the Kamino setup. One Jedi was stationed there to watch over the clones, but there was no way she could invest in each individual as much as she would want to. The Kaminoans weren’t going to provide a healthy bond between young clones and the world of adults.

Really, the clones had to rely on one another. Older brothers, reaching out to the younger.

As far as Harissa was concerned, that seemed the more likely reason for the clones’ responses to these kids.

Mimic was giving a remarkable impression of Ima-Gun to the delighted giggles of the younger Li generation.

The pause was only long enough to consume lunch. Harissa regretted the haste, since the clones had been right.

It may have been her fourth day away from the Temple, but she was very relieved for the deviation from military rations.

The last of the bales collected, they all climbed to the top of the piles and perched there as Dav drove the hovercart to the barn.

From this vantage point, Harissa could look out over the farm. It was beautiful out here. The fields had been carved out of the forest, and trees surrounded the whole like a protective and decorative backdrop.

Harissa knew the sensation of protection was false, that only a few minutes’ walk would take her back to where the fighting had been so brutal.

They must have heard the cannon fire from here. She could only imagine how terrifying it must have been for them.

She watched Berri as they neared the barn.

She didn’t seem concerned by the clones whatsoever. She certainly didn’t mind how taken her children were with them.

_Why?_

Why the difference between Reltu and here?

The hovercart came to a smooth halt, and everyone piled off except for Berri and Blinder. They passed the bales down to waiting hands, and the stacking began.

Again.

Only this time it was the people on the ground nesting the bales together, making sure they were braced against one another. Ensuring they wouldn’t topple over and down.

The light was fading by the time they finished. Harissa forced her feet to move out of the barn. Looking up, she could see clouds churning.

Dav had been right. The rain was coming, and fast.

“Thank you for your help.”

Looking over, Harissa saw Dav, covered in sweat and dust.

Just like the rest of them.

“I’m glad we could,” Harissa offered in return. “How often do you have to do that?”

“A new harvest is ready every two standard months.”

Harissa’s eyes widened. “So that’s why the clones seemed so comfortable. They’d done it with you before.”

Dav nodded. “They’ve done a lot around here. We appreciate you and the General being willing to allow it.”

A water droplet struck Harissa’s face, then another, and another.

Tired, hot, with dirt stuck to her, she welcomed the rain. It felt good against her face, washing away the dust.

“Let us feed you dinner before you go.”

There was no way in Kessel Harissa was going to turn _that_ offer down.

A combination between the rain and water from the well rendered Harissa, the clones, and the Li family fairly clean.

Spread out in the main room of the house, they were given blankets to help them dry off as much as possible. Sitting on the floor, Harissa gladly accepted a bowl of steaming soup.

Teza was long gone, and Harissa couldn’t sense her simmering resentment, which made Harissa think she might have completely left the farm.

The evening flew by as Harissa watched the clones recount adventures they’d experienced on Kamino, enrapturing the kids.

In between stories of the clones’ younger days— complete, of course, with Mimic’s renditions of Kaminoan instructors and even the Jedi in charge— the Li family shared stories of their _own_ adventures.

Floods, clouds of insects so thick they blocked out the sun, animals gone insane, near-accidents.

Harissa was surprised by how similar those stories felt to army life. Moments of quiet punctuated by the potential of utter disaster, averted only by the desperate efforts of everyone present.

She completely lost track of time.

Fortunately for all of them, Blinder _didn't_.

The disappointed cries of the kids when it was time to leave were echoed in Harissa’s own heart.

“We’ll be back,” Skid promised.

Harissa’s sympathetic smile vanished as she heard his words.

They reminded her that this was merely an interlude. All was beautiful, quiet, peaceful here.

But that wasn’t going to last.

Skid paused by Dav on his way out. “One of my brothers has a letter that needs to get to someone in Xertu.”

Dav gave him a nod and accepted the sealed letter from the trooper. “I’ll make sure it’s sent.”

“Thank you.”

Ah. So _that_ had been Skid’s plan.

Use the local mail system, however that might work. Harissa didn’t have time to ask about it, since Berri stayed her with a hand on the arm.

Looking down into the woman’s face, Harissa discovered concern and compassion in the dark eyes.

“How old are you, Dear?”

That certainly wasn’t a question she’d been expecting, and the surprise showed in Harissa’s face. “Fourteen.”

Berri’s eyes crinkled in pain. “Are things that bad out there? That they’re sending children to fight the war?”

“Oh. No. I mean, there aren’t enough Jedi. The knights and masters can’t be spared from the battlefront to teach the Padawans, so we have to go to them to receive our training. We can’t very well put our training on hold until the war is over.”

Berri reached up, caressed Harissa’s cheek with her calloused hand.

The movement startled the Padawan, and she froze, unsure what to do.

“We’ve heard what happens to worlds the Separatists take. We appreciate what you are doing. Just be careful, Dear.”

Harissa somehow manged to spit out something sounding vaguely like, “Sure,” as they took their leave.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

Their way lit by the lamps on the clones' blasters, Harissa walked in silence.

She could still feel Berri’s fingers against her face. The genuine care the hardworking woman had for her.

She’d never run into a civilian who _cared_ about Jedi before.

It was... very strange. And it was threatening to choke her up, and she didn’t know why.

Seeing the clones around and before her, she couldn’t imagine mixing them up. They were so _different_ from one another.

And yet, the citizens of the galaxy saw them as existing simply for their protection and service. They were expendable. They weren’t seen as individuals, but a convenient whole. A buffer between them and danger.

_It’s how they see the Jedi, too._

When a Jedi died, who cared? It was just another one of those people in brown robes. A number.

Would the Republic care how many Jedi died in this battle for their freedoms?

No.

Who would remember their names?

Only their brother Jedi.

Would the Republic care how many clones died in the same battle?

No. They were already demonstrating that.

Who bothered to remember their names?

Only their brothers.

_And yet they still get up, every morning, ready to struggle, suffer, and die for those uncaring people._

_Just like we do._

Skid saw her watching his face, and sent her a carefree smile.

Harissa knew that if she or her Master died tonight, these men around her wouldn’t forget them.

And if these men lost _their_ lives, there was no way Harissa would be able to forget them either.

The clones cared about their Jedi. Deeply. She could feel it.

And she already had seen how deeply Ima-Gun connected with his men.

As for herself, she could see a kinship here. There was something inherently strong in the pairing of Jedi and clone.

The people who cared about the Jedi, who would remember, were right here with her now.

_We’re the only friends they have, and they are the only friends we have._

Specifically, of course, it was more complicated than that. The Li family had befriended these clones. Berri cared about Harissa as a person.

They weren’t like other... _civvies_... Harissa had encountered.

Somehow, Berri and Dav saw Jedi and clones as individuals. Real people. Not just protectors and soldiers existing simply to sacrifice self for anyone in hazard’s way.

No wonder Skid and his brothers kept coming back to this farm.

It was a haven.

They reached the base, tired but happy.

As Harissa shrugged out of her stiff clothes, she took a hard look at the dark brown marking pen.

Mimic was right. The politicians did their best to strip the soldiers of their personhood. To ignore the individuals that comprised the army.

No wonder the Jedi identified more heavily with their men than with the people handing down the orders.

She didn’t _have_ to show that solidarity. She felt it. Her Master felt it. Her clones felt it.

It was a song being played out across the galaxy, wherever clones were serving with their Jedi Generals and Commanders.

No. She didn’t have to change her appearance to make that kinship more clear. Yes. They could all feel it without that.

But she wanted to.

When the politicians looked at her, she wanted them to see her standing with her men in every way possible.

_We’re not just here to protect the galaxy from the droids. We’re here to protect our men from those who think they are property. From people who want to see them as numbers._

Who would do that if the Jedi didn’t?

She fell asleep trying to decide how to make use of that pen.

 

* * *

Harissa felt eager as she traced her way once again to the mess hall.

Her Master met her at the door with a smile. “Different plans for today,” he announced. “We’ll spend the day on-board the Recovery. I’d like to see what you know of capital ships, and we’ll fill in what you still need to learn. I also know that Admiral Dao will be running maneuvers; it should be instructive for you to watch. We’ll leave as soon as you’ve eaten.”

“Alright.” Harissa sped over to accomplish just that. Eye-contact and nods of acknowledgment to the various clones she knew had to suffice for interaction this morning.

They seemed to understand her haste, and kept away.

Instead of leading her to a shuttle after she’d finished, Ima-Gun headed for the fighters.

“We left them up on the Recovery,” Harissa pointed out, “so who brought them down?”

“The astromechs. They are perfectly capable of flying them solo.”

That made sense.

Her fighter looked bare and impersonal.

Something needed to be done about it.

Maybe this was where she should start with the art. Get some clone assistance and advice, and decorate the little diamond-shaped ship.

_A project for another day._

This was her third time warming her ship up, and the first without the pressure of battle.

She glanced at the astromech behind her. Light purple and a dull gray, matching her fighter, it seemed to study her face in return.

“Hey. I didn’t catch your name.”

The twitters translated themselves across her fighter’s screen.

R3-N8.

“Can I call you Neight?”

He apparently had no objections.

Harissa nodded, flicking switches. “Here we go.”

At her Master’s direction, they brought the fighters into the hangar just below the bridge. From there, it only took moments to reach the heart of the command area.

Admiral Dao, conferring with clone officers, stood leaning over the holotable. Looking up as the Jedi entered, he gave Ima-Gun a nod. “General. Commander.”

“Admiral.”

Harissa watched, trying to absorb as much as she could, as the Recovery and her pilots ran through battle simulations. There was something beautiful about the precision and focus of the clones, both manning the capital ship, and in the individual fighters that carved their way through space around the bridge’s viewports.

Throughout it all, Dao offered Harissa explanations. The thought behind this maneuver. The reason why they sent the fighters out in that order. Military theory and doctrines. Personal experience with the droid fleet, and battles that had taken place long before the Clone War even began.

Harissa focused all her attention on what he was trying to teach her, knowing he didn’t have to do this.

She was Ima-Gun’s responsibility to train, not Dao’s. Undoubtedly, Dao hadn’t made war his career so he could teach fourteen-year-olds the subtleties of battle, but he didn’t seem to resent the effort he was putting into her. Harissa tried, by her attentiveness and feedback, to let him know that she valued what he was giving her.

The morning sped by under Dao’s guidance, and when she and her Master left, she was no longer intimidated by the Admiral.

In awe, certainly. Even more so than before. This man’s knowledge and experience were impressive to say the least, as was his ability to adapt. He’d adapted to the differences of droid warfare versus living soldiers. He’d adapted to the way the clones could best be set to work. He’d adapted to a Jedi General.

And somehow he’d adapted to having a teenage girl on his bridge.

Harissa could only guess that for a military man, that had to be the hardest on the list.

_I’ll try to make sure it’s as misery-free as possible for him._

The galley felt very similar to the mess hall down on the planet below.

The main difference here was that not _all_ the clones were in bodysuits. In fact, most wore uniforms. When they thought they were being covert, they watched her with as much curiosity as their pilot and soldier brethren had.

Sitting at an empty table, Harissa realized that she was fairly alone with her Master. There weren’t any troopers close enough to overhear low-spoken tones.

It felt good.

“What do you think of Dao?” Ima-Gun asked.

Harissa took a moment to chew and swallow before she answered. “He knows a _lot_. I also appreciate that he didn’t have to take the time with me that he did.”

“He’s a good man, and his men trust him. I know he’s saved my skin more than once.”

“Speaking of the men.” Harissa set her utensil down. “Everything you told me about the clones is true. I had so many ridiculous concerns.” Her face warmed as she remembered some of the questions she’d asked him just days before.

“They seem to have decided to claim you,” Ima-Gun observed. “I’ve heard no complaints.”

Harissa shook her head. “They are so openhearted. So self-giving. So dedicated. So alone, except for their brothers.”

A smirk lit Ima-Gun’s eyes. “They reminded you of Jedi.”

“Yeah.”

“Speaking of. There is something we haven’t tried yet, Padawan. Shall we attempt lightsaber flow after completing the tour of the Recovery?”

Harissa’s heart skipped a beat.

She _missed_ it. It had been so long since she’d indulged in the Jedi’s highest form of play. After losing her second Master, she’d been unable to trust herself enough.

Memory of the mental contact she’d shared with Ima-Gun in joint meditation on the flight here whispered about her mind.

_But if they_ do _die because of me..._

The last five days had been so different, so new that she’d almost been able to leave behind her shadow of her “curse.”

“I would like that,” Harissa spoke up, her voice sober, without a trace of the longing she’d experienced a moment ago. “Could we please turn the intensity down to nonlethal?”

She was concerned he would deny her request, since it was made out of fear for his safety, but he surprised her.

“Certainly.”

The knot in Harissa’s stomach eased. Lightsaber flow without danger to her Master.

Oh, now the eagerness was back.

It was all she could do to pay attention as they worked their way through the cruiser. Ima-Gun wanted her familiar with the main systems, so she watched carefully as clones explained the basic workings of the giant engines and hyperdrive, how to fire the main guns, the basics of reading the diagnostic screens where the Recovery could tell her people what ailed her.

And then she and her Master were alone.

It was a mustering room, a place where the ground troops could practice maneuvers while waiting for deployment. The various doors leading in were shut, and no one stood on the observation balcony.

_It’s just us now._

The semi-aloneness at lunch had felt good.

This felt amazing.

She adjusted her saber’s focus, and then ignited its blue blade.

Since this was neither a competition nor a demonstration, she lowered her mental shields as deeply as she could. She _wanted_ him to see her intentions.

For lightsaber flow to work, she _needed_ him to.

Ima-Gun’s saber glowed with a restrained fire as he adjusted it. In the Force, Harissa reached for his mind with her own.

She felt him lower his shields and reach out to her in return.

And then they were in motion.

It began slowly, each listening for the other’s intention in order to perfectly match and respond. As confidence built, the blades moved ever faster.

Since they were in a safe place, Harissa allowed herself to be lost in the motions and her Master’s mind.

The only things in existence were right here.

Her saber was an extension of herself. Her soul resonated with its crystal, and she could feel Ima-Gun’s connection to his own lightsaber.

Her eyes fell shut.

She didn’t need to see; seeing actually took away from the enjoyment. Leaving the world around her behind allowed her to focus only on the melody of her signature in the Force, and the music created as it blended with Ima-Gun’s. Harmonizing in perfect unity. A song not of voices, but of souls.

Her feet, her saber moved in response to Ima-Gun’s, and he to hers. A dance where both led, and both followed. Unscripted, ever-changing, always improvised.

The lines of individuality began to blur. In this place, it was Ima-Gun who was moving her, guiding her, and she doing the same for him. Ima-Gun was allowing her to see his soul from the inside out. It was almost like looking through his eyes. The connection went both ways, of course. Individuality wasn’t lost, but almost reversed as it merged. Extensions of one another, they basked in the golden light of the Force.

The beauty of this place couldn’t be described.

It could only be felt.

 

* * *

 

Keeli, though on board the Recovery, had managed to keep out of the Jedi’s way. It didn’t matter where he went, he still heard the gentle murmurings of his brothers. They liked Padawan Nol. A lot.

Stories about her were spreading so fast. It wasn’t like his brothers had anything to talk about _but_ what happened to and around them.

He was concerned that she was being turned into some form of mascot or hero.

Harissa was neither.

She was just a kid where she didn’t belong.

The General thought this was a good idea, but Keeli had _known_ it was a mistake the first time he heard her voice.

The panic, the fear she had exhibited in that first battle just proved what Keeli had suspected from the start.

Children didn’t belong in war.

He had no doubt she was doing her best. But it was his men who were going to suffer for every mistake she made along the way. Maybe _they_ didn’t mind, but it was _his_ _job_ to do so.

Not to mention the fact that he and the other clones _couldn’t_ protect her always. Skid may have saved her life once.

They wouldn’t always be able to pull that off.

It wasn’t just his brothers who were going to suffer.

The likelihood was that it was just a matter of time before she was seriously wounded or maimed, and that was _if_ she escaped death.

A child.

Dead on his watch.

Ima-Gun’s choice to bring her here didn’t undermine the deep respect and loyalty Keeli felt for him, but he _did_ feel his General had made a mistake.

This was wrong.

His comlink chirped. “Captain? I think you’d better see this.”

“What is it?”

“Not sure. You’d better come look.”

Keeli used every shortcut available to reach the trooper’s position.

As he approached, he could hear the hum and snarl of lightsabers in battle.

He found forty brothers standing on the overlook for the maneuvers room. They made way for him so he could reach the front. From that vantage point, he could see clones crowding the open doorways below.

The General and Commander were fighting.

_Really_ fighting.

Keeli could barely track the lightsabers’ paths, they were moving so fast.

Not quite able to believe his eyes, Keeli blinked a few times and focused again.

It was utterly silent except for the footfalls and lightsabers, almost as if his brothers were holding their breaths.

It _looked_ like the two Jedi were trying to slaughter one another.

The only thing that held him back from calling out to his General and asking for orders was the expression of serene bliss on both Jedi faces.

And the fact that their eyes were closed.

Their eyes were _closed_.

“What are they doing?” Blake whispered. “Is the General in danger? Because it looks like he is _really_ enjoying himself.”

Keeli shook his head, his gaze glued to the battle taking place down below. How was _he_ supposed to know? “How long have they been doing this?”

“I got here forty-five standard minutes ago,” Cards answered without looking up.

“Forty-Five _minutes_?” Now it was his ears that Keeli was doubting.

“Yes sir. Who knows how long before _that_.”

Beam frowned. “I don’t get it. Why hasn’t the General won yet?”

“Maybe he’s teaching her,” Keeli suggested.

Cards didn’t sound convinced. “If he is, it’s been too subtle for _me_ to catch. No talking, no breaks. They haven’t laid a saber on each other. Not a single slip-up. _Not one_. Best I can guess? It’s a game. Without competition. Probably choreographed?”

“You mean like a dance?” Keeli had heard of dances, but had never seen one. This hadn’t been his mental image of what one might be like...

But Harissa was practically glowing with contentment and joy, so this couldn’t be a hostile encounter.

Keeli glanced at his chrono. It was getting late.

Technically he didn’t have anything else needing his attention.

Leaning against the handrailing, he settled in to wait, studying the two Jedi.

He heard the large screens in the room behind him activating, the battle now playing there too.

Apparently there wasn’t room for the clones still collecting who wanted to watch.

The murmur of conversation that started up back there felt disruptive. It wasn’t taking the brothers in the other room long to take sides, and commence cheering and rather intense discussions about what they were witnessing.

Keeli glanced at Beam, who stood closest to the door. “Close it.”

The door shut out the conversations, leaving the great room quiet again.

Never once did the Jedi look up or away.

Whatever this was, Harissa had impressive skills. She had obviously trained with a blade for years. Keeli had heard rumors that children as young as three were schooled in the art of the saber.

Of course, he had no idea if it was true.

Maybe he would ask his General sometime.

Apparently oblivious to the observers, the Jedi seemed completely wrapped up in each other.

Keeli tried to discern whether Ima-Gun was compensating for any mistakes his Padawan might be committing, making _her_ look good by _his_ prowess.

He couldn’t find any. Her senses had to be beautifully sharp.

Keeli didn’t know much about sword craft, so he couldn’t judge her form; but he knew footwork, and hers never compromised in quality.

_She isn’t just a kid. She’s a highly trained kid._

And... if she’d started around the age of three...

She had just as much training as Keeli himself had possessed when he stepped onto his first field of battle.

That was a different Keeli from the man he was now.

It had been experience that made the difference.

It was experience that would round out the kid’s rough edges.

Maybe death and destruction weren’t a foregone conclusion.

She had prowess. She had skill, she had endurance.

And he’d seen her take orders she didn’t want to listen to.

That meant self-discipline.

She also had humility. At first, Keeli hadn’t been sure that wasn’t a front. A way to convince his brothers to like her in spite of her incompetence.

He still didn’t know where he stood on that.

Dao felt it was honest. His brothers thought it genuine.

Mimic, keen reader of character that he was, had given her his stamp of approval.

_So why am I still struggling with this?_

Was it the indignity of having a child be put in authority over his head?

So far, in the last five days, the General had still spent most of his focus on strategy and the war effort. He hadn’t pulled away from his soldiers, responsibilities, or Captain in order to teach his apprentice.

Maybe it was time to accept her.

The fighting slowed, came to a stop.

The Jedi didn’t look tired.

If anything, they seemed relaxed.

Ima-Gun reached out, placed his palm against Harissa’s cheek. “Well done.”

The words, carried by the acoustics of the room, could be distinctly heard on the balcony.

Harissa’s face revealed just how much his praise meant to her.

 

* * *

 

Harissa’s heart marveled at the approval she could sense in her Master.

He was proud of her. Respected her. Trusted her.

And she’d impressed him.

Her soul, so cold and alone for so long, bloomed.

Maybe Ima-Gun was right.

It was time to leave behind the chains of the past. Time to embrace the present and welcome the future.

And just maybe, under his training, she could learn to accept the fear that plagued her. Maybe it wasn’t an enemy.

_Like the creature._ She thought of the painting Ima-Gun had shown her in the Temple. Maybe she could find peace, a symbiosis with her emotions that allowed her serenity.

Applause cracked harsh against her ears, and Harissa jumped.

Over Ima-Gun’s shoulder she could see clones crowed in a doorway that _had been_ closed earlier. Turning, she saw more in the other doorway, and looking up....

Embarrassment flooded her system.

Just _how many_ of them had been watching? And for how long?

It felt like being caught without her clothes on. An invasion.

There, at the front, leaned Keeli. He looked troubled, but Harissa couldn’t guess his thoughts.

“You want to retire to your room?” Ima-Gun’s quiet voice reached her through the enthusiastic clamor.

She nodded, grateful he understood.

It wasn’t easy to escape the eager clones, but with her Master’s help, she managed.

The tiny room assigned to her was blissfully quiet and empty.

She showered, combed out her hair, and gave herself over to sleep.

Maybe she could forget how the wonderful afternoon had ended in humiliation.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

Ima-Gun came for her early in the morning, before ship’s dawn. Slipping through the nearly-deserted halls to the hangar, they took their fighters out into the emptiness of space.

Emptiness being relative, of course. Debris from the earlier battle was still prevalent, and provided an obstacle course that the two Jedi made ample use of.

Ima-Gun wanted to practice voiceless communication in flight.

Harissa reached out with her mind across the gap between them in order to guess what her Master intended, and tried to match her fighter’s flight path to his, mirroring him as best as she could.

Hours whispered past as they shot targets, dodged debris, and flew as close to the bridge’s veiwports as they could get. Skimming low over and under the Recovery, practicing stealth and accuracy.

Neight was a quiet copilot, keeping all thoughts to himself unless directly asked. He seemed unconcerned about Harissa’s close flying. The same could _not_ be said of the astromech assigned to her Master.

R2-T12, or Artwelve, as he was known to Ima-Gun and his men, shrieked at every sharply-turned corner.

Apparently it wasn’t just the clones who had differences in personality.

The two Jedi ate lunch, and then headed back down to the Republic base.

Ima-Gun gave her the rest of the day off, so Harissa wandered to the mess.

A scattering of clones lounged about, chatting or cleaning their blasters.

She caught sight of a clone with his hair in a low bun, and the words _Droids’ Bane_ tattooed in calligraphy on his forehead.

_I know his name. I know his name. Come on, Harissa._

The rest of the clones present she knew for _sure_ she didn’t know their names.

_It’s important._

She stretched out to the Force... recognized the intensity of his mind.

_Ned. His name is Ned._

Walking over to where he sat doodling on a flimsi, she stood opposite him at the table. “Hey Ned.”

His head snapped up, fierce eyes sparkling. “Commander.”

“Where is everybody else?”

“If you’re meaning Skid and his squad, they’re out playing with their blasters in the courtyard. If you’re meaning Sketch, he’s off drawing on one of the AT-TEs with a whole lot of help. Last I saw Ced, he was searching for wildflowers to dry and send to Jesp. Kenn’s idea. Kenn’s in the bunk room, singing his lungs out to music recordings he found somewhere.”

Harissa shook her head. “You know exactly who I’ve been spending time with.”

“Of course I know,” Ned smirked. “We all do.”

Harissa pulled out the chair in front of her and sat down. “And how about you? What are you doing?”

Ned pulled away his braced arm so Harissa could see the flimsi. It was covered in scrollwork, very similar in tone to Sketch’s art. “I’m trying to find the right word.”

Harissa squinted at the paper. Sure, it was upside-down for her, but _still_... “Words?”

“The spirals help me think. It’s a contagious habit. Just about everybody’s caught it. Sketch is responsible, of course.” He tapped a datapad. “I’m writing something. Trying to find the right word.”

“You writing a letter?”

“What? No. That’s Ced’s business. I got nobody to write to. I journal.”

Harissa’s eyebrows flicked in surprise. “Really?”

Ned bobbed his head. “I told the General someone should chronicle what the Three-Thirty-Seventh does. I mean, we have _seen_ some things. The stories should get written down. He said it was a good idea, and that I should do it. So I’ve been doing it.”

Admiration for her Master bubbled in Harissa’s core, and with it, wonderment. Chronicle. Was that a word the Kaminoans would have taught Ned? Why should they? It was a frivolous word. Unnecessary for a man they had designed to live and die as a soldier.

Then again, maybe she should have been expecting _chronicle_. After all, the man had the word _bane_ written across his forehead.

“The memoirs of Ned the Droid Bane and the Three-Thirty-Seventh.”

Now it was Ned’s eyebrows that jolted upwards. “Oh. I like that.” He scribbled the words in the center of his swirls.

“I’d like to read them sometime, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Ned blinked. “Why would I mind?”

She had to hand it to them. They had the confidence of giants. Self-conscious fear of sharing what they could do seemed completely alien to their psyches. Sketch, with the art he had taught himself to make; Ced, with his discovered emotions for Jesp; Mimic, with his imitation skills, also self-taught; Ned and his budding career as a writer; and, if Ned was accurate, apparently Kenn and his singing.

“No reason,” she assured him. “Listen. I think I’m going to go find Skid.”

“Good. Because I found my word.”

Harissa stood, a curious smile crossing her face. “Oh? What was it?”

“Glint. It fits way better than _shine_ or _sparked_. _Sparked_ suggests fire. Shine suggests permanence. It’s shiny all the time. Glint has a brevity to it. That it happened in an instant, and then is gone. Speed. What do you think?”

Harissa stared at him in amazement. “I think... writing definitely suits you.”

His smile flashed, quick and bright, and then he was tapping away at the datapad with remarkable speed.

Leaving the mess hall behind her, Harissa indulged in a small fantasy. The war over, Ned’s face on the news... his _chronicles_ available to the galaxy. A galaxy realizing how distinct these men were. How precious each life was. And maybe, just maybe, responding in gratitude. Late, perhaps, but better than never. Maybe his words could inspire younger generations to value peace and their freedoms.

The sight of clones crawling all over an AT-TE while she walked through the landing area shook Harissa free from her daydream. Sketch, dangling from a harness, was marking curving lines on the not-so-easily-accessible areas of the tank.

Two brothers kept track of moving the harness over as he worked his way along. Others filled in the swirls already outlined with dark brown paint. Who knew where they had gotten _that_ from.

The rest of the clones were standing around, pointing, calling suggestions, jokes, and laughing.

The sun struck the aggressive spikes of Sketch’s hair. The flashes weren’t prolonged, weren’t there all the time...

_The sun is_ glinting _off his hair._

Harissa smiled to herself.

Ned. Another remarkable individual.

_I need to make a point of talking to him more often._

She needed to expand her comfort zone.

And she _would_. Just not right this minute. She wanted to see Singe’s kind eyes. Be near Threetu’s quick wit. Skid’s steady, good-natured confidence. Mimic’s sarcastic observations. Blinder’s quiet intensity.

She passed the AT-TE without the men’s notice. Their happy voices warmed her heart long after she’d moved out of sight.

Her ears guided her around the gunships, to an open space. The sharp cracks hadn’t deceived her.

Blinder lay on his stomach, his sniper rifle propped on the ground, taking out set-up targets like it was the most important thing he would ever do.

Close by, Singe and Threetu were taking out more targets, using their pistols, evidently trying to out-shoot each other.

Skid was lying on his back, soaking in the sun’s rays beside Mimic, who was polishing pieces of his blaster.

Threetu was the first to notice her approach. “Look what the nexu dragged in! She looks just like the Padawan who made everyone’s eyes fall out yesterday. Oh... _wait_! It _is_ that Padawan!”

Oh dear.

“You... heard about that.” Ned’s words rang in her mind, just a little bit different to fit this situation.

Of course they knew. They _all_ did.

That was something she’d have to get used to. Here... everyone knew everything. It was inevitable.

_And not only are personal experiences the only things they have to talk about, I’m_ also _the only newcomer. It’s like having a giant blinking arrow above my head telling everyone to pay attention to every single breath I take._

Harissa had never enjoyed being the center of attention. She’d preferred to _avoid_ it when possible.

Blinder’s laugh startled her. “Heard about it? Are you kidding? Threetu has seen it _twice_. How many hours _was_ that, Threetu?”

A sudden chill erupted in Harissa’s guts. “He... _saw_... it?”

“Are you kidding?” Skid smirked, looking up at her. “Do you think the boys up top could get away with _telling_ us without _showing_ us? They sent down the recording.”

The chill turned to ice. “Recording?”

“Yeah. As soon as they realized what was happening, they started. You know, if you’d just _told_ somebody what you two were planning, the whole thing could have been caught—”

“I don’t suppose there’s a person in the entire Three-Thirty-Seventh and the Recovery crew who hasn’t seen it.” Harissa hoped beyond hope the answer _wouldn't_ be what she knew it _had_ to be—

“Not one. Even Admiral Dao saw it. Well. A lot of it. I don’t know if he saw _all_ of it.”

Harissa stared at Skid in horror. “It was _private_!” she gasped, mortified.

Five clone faces stared at her without understanding.

“Sparring is private?” Singe asked, clearly thinking he’d misheard her.

Harissa’s throat burned and her eyes stung. “No. Not sparring and teaching.”

That wasn’t clearing it up for them.

“Sparring is a competition. Trying to win. People testing themselves against one another. Teaching can be sparring, but usually has pauses for instruction. Lightsaber flow is— it’s _personal_.”

“It’s called lightsaber flow?” Threetu asked.

Harissa nodded, trying to swallow the rock in her throat.

Singe’s brows furrowed in concern. “It’s something other people aren’t supposed to see?”

Blinking hard and trying to look like she _wasn’t_ , she considered her answer.

Did Jedi only partake in lightsaber flow when alone?

No.

But it was never a _spectacle_. Never an _event_. Sparring often became an impromptu opportunity to come and gawk. Especially when it centered around individuals considered the best swordsmen in the Order.

News that Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi were in the dojo made the rounds even faster than the _clone_ network. Masses of Jedi would gather, and yes, it was a show.

Especially those two. Half the time the battle would be more playful than a serious competition, but that didn’t lessen the showing-off quality.

When Yoda or Mace Windu— the _only_ two Jedi considered to be more skilled than Skywalker and Kenobi— took the ring, the crowds were even bigger.

But Harissa had never witnessed any of those four in lightsaber flow.

That, of course, didn’t count Yoda’s rudimentary teachings in the art. All younglings experienced a basic understanding of the concept, but it was their Masters who truly taught—

“Is it something for just Masters and Apprentices?”

That was Singe. Trying to understand.

Harissa shook her head. “No.” It happened between friends, or with Jedi who needed to work closely together, and required a deep understanding of one another without having the luxury of learning through time. It could also simply be play, Jedi entertaining themselves on a long flight or on leave.

“It’s something just for Jedi, then,” Singe guessed.

“It’s not something to be recorded and replayed. It’s not something to... show people.” Harissa could still sense the confusion rolling off the clones in waves. “It’s _private_ , you know? Like taking a shower?”

The confusion only deepened.

“Is taking a shower private?” Threetu murmured to Singe, clearly baffled.

The analogy hadn’t been a good one to start with, but using it with men raised by a species who regarded them as organic droids and who prized efficiency and perceived individuality to be a flaw...

“Morning exercise?” she suggested.

And then promptly had visions of masses of clones jogging together.

It was over. She closed her eyes and just tried to accept it.

They couldn’t understand her humiliation.

_It’s just another experience_ , she promised herself, but her soul wasn’t buying it. No matter how much it admired Master Di.

“It’s something special, then.”

Harissa opened her eyes to find Skid’s expression had turned thoughtful.

He propped himself up on an elbow as he continued. “Something... not _just_ between two people, but still something that you don’t do with _everyone_.”

Harissa gave him a wordless nod.

“And the fact that everybody saw it and thought it was sparring, not understanding its significance, made it feel less...” Singe searched for a word. “Sacred?”

Blinder sat up, cradling his sniper rifle in his arms. “I still don’t get it. It’s just sword fighting, right? Did I miss something? What’s intimate about fighting?”

“It’s not fighting.” _Ned, I sure could use some precise words right now._ “It’s a dance that we’re making up as we go. There’s no aggression. Just harmony. Building something together. And our minds sort of... meld.”

Inwardly, Harissa kicked herself. _I just should have said it was a game. ‘The highest form of Jedi play.’ That’s how it was explained to me._

“Mind kissing.” Threetu’s face lit up with understanding.

Harissa’s immediate expression of horror shocked all five clones. They looked at one another uncertainly, then back at the sputtering Padawan.

“ _No_!” she somehow managed to choke out. “ _No_. _No_. _No_. There’s nothing romantic about it. It’s intense, it’s very personal, you almost see out of the other person’s eyes, and you know their every intention and they yours, but it’s not _romantic_. It’s...” Harissa floundered, desperate to right the misconception before it was transferred all over the 337th.

And then she knew what metaphor to use.

The obvious one that had been staring her in the face during this whole conversation.

Five times over.

“It’s a brothers thing. Something two brothers would do, would share, to demonstrate their trust in each other. Their kinship.”

“Swapping blasters or armor for a mission.” The first words Mimic had to offer her.

“ _Yes_.” _Oh, thank the Force._ “Although we do that with lightsabers too— trading for a mission. And you’re right. That fits my description better. Lightsaber flow _can_ be about demonstrating trust, or it can be something done for fun or educational purposes. Learning how other people think, and how to work with people who are different from yourself. It’s easy to lose track of time. I sure did. It’s... a family thing. Not a romantic thing.”

The squad seemed to be able to accept this. The concept of a massive, sprawling family containing members who you may have never met, but are still somehow close to, just made sense to them.

_Only theirs is bigger. There’s ten thousand of us. There’s millions of them._

“If it’s not a competition... and you aren’t necessarily close... it could be like brothers from different regiments volunteering for scouting together. It could be a demonstration of trust, or something to pass the time, or a way to get to know another brother.” Threetu seemed comfortable with that idea.

“Yes.”

“What I don’t get is why it’s embarrassing you.” Blinder shook his head.

Oh. This again. “I’m not embarrassed that you _know_. What embarrassed me was that some of your brothers came in during the middle, and I didn’t know they were there. I thought Master Di and I were alone. I didn’t know we were being watched. And I was afraid they didn’t realize we weren’t showing off. It has less to do with the saber movements, and more to do with what the Force is doing with us.”

“Oh. That’s easily fixed.” Skid smiled. “Next time they’ll know what’s going on.”

_Them and any other clone regiment that happens to brush past ours long enough to swap stories_.

The thought that her words might help shape the opinions of millions of men through osmosis made her just a bit woozy.

“So you’re not mad about the recording anymore?” Threetu asked, sounding hopeful.

The mortification had eased some, leaving behind an uneasy discomfort. “I know you boys weren’t trying to be disrespectful.”

“But it’s not alright to do it next time,” Singe concluded.

“Yeah.”

There was a moment of quiet consideration, and then the five were back to their previous activities.

Blinder rolled over, and in the motion took out a target.

Skid dropped back to the ground and closed his eyes.

Mimic scrubbed away at metal and plastoids that couldn’t _possibly_ shine any brighter, and hadn’t the slightest hint of dust that Harissa could discern.

Threetu was placing blaster bolts squarely into targets, a pistol in each hand, trying to make his killzones smaller in diameter with each trigger squeeze.

Singe watched Harissa’s face just a few moments longer than his brothers.

She should have expected that, with his keen sensitivity.

Harissa sent him a smile that felt just a _little_ forced.

When he turned back to the targets, Harissa suspected he’d taken his attention off her not because he was satisfied as of yet, but because he was trying to ease her self-consciousness.

It was almost scary, how well he comprehended the inner workings of the mind.

_And where did he learn all_ that _?_

“You said sparring is fine?” That was Threetu.

“Yes.”

“How about target practice? How good are you with a blaster?” He threw her a challenging glance. That brought Mimic’s head up again, an eager glint in his eyes.

_You do this, and he’ll be reenacting it for everyone else by the end of the day._

But did it matter?

So Harissa used the Force to snatch Singe’s second blaster from its holster.

Almost before it had left its place at the man’s leg, five pairs of clone eyes were watching with an almost predatory intensity.

_Not likely anyone’s going to take you boys by surprise using the Force._

It was almost as though they’d felt it, which, of course, was patently ridiculous.

They were just very well suited to fight with Jedi.

The pistol snugly in her palm, she moved to stand beside Singe.

Here went nothing.

Eyeing the blackened marks she’d put into the target, Harissa felt a sense of confidence.

No. She was _not_ spectacular.

But she was better than decent. She was good.

That was Temple training for you. The teachers were very thorough, and very versatile, and they held the younglings to that high standard.

That being said, there was no point in getting into a contest with any of the men present, and that was _without_ counting Blinder.

Harissa could sense Threetu’s surprise.

“What? You thought Jedi only train with lightsabers?” she teased. It felt good to exceed expectations. It wasn’t a sensation she experienced often.

“Were you using the Force, or was that your natural aim?” Mimic asked.

“Hand and eye only. Sometimes we end up in places where we can’t access the Force, or something hinders our connection to it. The Masters want us ready to face whatever comes. We train in various different weapons with and without Force use, and we try to keep our bodies strong and fit.”

“Is there any lightsaber practice that we _are_ allowed to see?” Mimic again.

Harissa shrugged. “Sure. It’s not going to be that interesting.”

But the clones didn’t seem to think so. They gave her their full attention again as she drew her lightsaber and ignited it.

Starting with Form I, she worked her way through the familiar motions. They calmed the last of the discomfort in her gut left over from the lightsaber flow incident.

_They walked in on us. So what? It’s normal for that to happen at the Temple or on missions. They recorded us and shared it._

That second line of thought was a little harder to follow with a confident _so what_... but maybe it _shouldn't_ be.

She remembered her Master’s complete lack of surprise at the clones’ presence.

Searching her memory, she tried to focus on him instead of what _she'd_ felt at the time. She must have sensed it. She just wouldn’t have recognized it...

Amusement. He felt lightly amused by the clones’ enthusiastic response.

And... fond. Of the clones, of Harissa.

Relaxed.

He didn’t feel their time had been invaded.

_Did he know they were recording it?_

Harissa had assumed that her Master had picked that particular room so they could be alone.

But...

It was perfect, absolutely perfect, for observation. And yes. The cams in there were comprehensive.

_Did he have us in there for the_ clones’ _benefit?_

And if so, how did she feel about that?

_Have I been mistaken all this time?_

Did other Jedi _not_ feel possessive about those special moments? Was that just her?

_The word_ possessive _should give you a clue, Harissa_ , she mused.

Completing the last gesture of Form VI, she gave the customary bow from the waist.

“So? What practice do you run through every day to the point it drives you crazy?”

Smirks lit the clones’ faces, and they fell into a line. Backing out of their way, Harissa watched as they ran through basic squad maneuvers. Silent, except for the light patter of boots, they communicated through subtle posture changes and hand signals.

Harissa applauded when they completed and turned to face her.

“Skid? Hey, Skid!” A clone came around the nose of one of the gunships. “There you are. There’s a kid out front looking for you.”

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

They found Wek standing in front of the courtyard’s wall, staring up at it in awe. His attention snapped to them as soon as they came into view. “Guys! Dad made me a fort in a tree! You’ve _got_ to come see!”

Skid tapped his wrist comm. “General? This is Skid. I’ve got a pretty anxious farmkid here. Wants to show the boys and the Commander his tree fort.”

Wek stood on tiptoe so he could talk into the link as well. “They’ve got to help me decorate it. Please? They’ll get back by bedtime. Promise.”

Harissa tried to hide her amused smile.

It looked like a kid asking some other kids’ parent for a playdate.

_And I’m one of the kids. No. This wasn’t what I was expecting from army life._

“Is that Wek?” her Master’s voice came through the comm.

“Yes, Sir, it is,” Skid confirmed.

Harissa could hear the low rumble of Ima-Gun’s chuckle. “Well, Wek. Since you asked so nicely. Skid, the usual.”

“Armor, helmets, blasters, comlinks on, back by bedtime,” Threetu recited.

“Harissa has her lightsaber?”

“Of course, Master.”

“Right then. Di, out.”

It was challenging to keep up with Wek as he raced through the forest. He knew just where to push through the branches and tangled bushes.

“Come on!” he urged, the excitement pouring off him like an aurora in the Force.

He stopped at the base of a tree, and scuttled up a ladder made from ropes and sticks.

Gathering at the trunk, the clones and Harissa stared up at the floorboards of Wek’s new hideout.

“When you said you had a fort, you didn’t tell us it was a _mansion_ ,” Threetu called, squinting up at it. “I was thinking of something quite a bit smaller!”

“I told Dad it had to fit all of us. Come up!”

Threetu was the first to avail himself of the invitation, Skid hard on his heels.

Harissa followed them up and pulled herself from the ladder to the floor.

Spacious, with a roof that would keep out the rain, and windows that might let it in, the place looked sturdy.

Wek drew the ladder up, dumping it on the floor. “Now nobody can get in.”

Blinder moved from window to window, looking through his rifle’s sights, checking out angles.

“We’re supposed to help decorate?” Skid asked.

Wek pressed a container of dark brown paint into his hands. “There’s one for each of us.”

Harissa eyed hers. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Like that,” Wek said, pointing at Skid’s face.

Threetu set his helmet down on the floor. “Now _that_ we can do.”

“I can’t.” Harissa tried to refuse the brush Wek held out to her.

The kid’s eyes pleaded up at her. “Yes you can. I know you can. Sketch said everybody can do it.”

_So it’s not_ just _the squad who’s made contact_. “Sketch is very talented. I wouldn’t want to mess up your fort.”

Wek sent her a look like _she_ was the little kid and _he_ the responsible young adult. “What kind of talk is that? I want somebody on each wall. And Threetu and Blinder will paint the outside.”

“How?” Threetu asked, leaning out one of the windows and looking up and down.

“With your cables, of course,” Wek returned.

Threetu nodded. “Yeah. That should work.” He pulled the canister from his belt, aimed for a tree limb farther up, and fired. Next thing Harissa knew, he was on the outside of the house, leaning _in_. “Okay kid. Where’s that paint?”

Wek positively beamed as he hurried to place the bin in Threetu’s hands.

Blinder slipped out of a window on the opposite side, rifle slung over his shoulder, and paint cradled in one arm.

“Be careful,” Harissa called.

Okay, _no_. Maybe it _wasn't_ the most commanderly thing she could have said, but she couldn’t help it.

“Yes, Mom,” Threetu called back, disappearing from his window.

The words jolted the Padawan. Shock, yes, but...

They triggered the tender feeling she’d experienced when she’d connected with the babies back at the Temple. Protective gentleness. Wonder at watching young minds reach out to the world around them.

And that was scary. _It was a joke_ , she told herself, turning to the wall so she could think without the others seeing her discomfort. _They may be just kids, but they’re_ adults _. And you’re their commanding officer. You’re not here to nurture them_.

Though...

Her Master seemed to disagree with that idea.

Radically.

These men were proof of that. His way of watching over them felt distinctly parently.

_Letting us out on playdates? Encouraging each to follow his dreams? Encouraging independent thought and expression?_

Harissa couldn’t help but think of Ima-Gun’s fighter and shuttle, covered in... what _were_ they covered in, really?

Was it _only_ about making those ships match the rest in the 337th?

_What are we? What are we to them? And what are we supposed to be?_

Memory of Ima-Gun’s welcoming response in the Force to seeing the clones invading their lightsaber flow whispered into her thoughts.

_He’s including them in his_ life _. He isn’t just here for a short period of time because he has to be, keeping them locked out because they don’t match what he thought his future would look like._

Ima-Gun was taking an active part of their lives, and allowing it right back.

And he was gently nudging his Padawan in the same direction.

_If we don’t... who will?_

It was a concept that was foundational to the Jedi Order.

These men had no one but their brothers... who were all in the same boat as the others.

_If Master Di doesn’t parent them, who will?_

It wasn’t the usual work of Jedi.

But these weren’t usual times.

And wasn’t that what Jedi were trained to do? Adapt to provide what was needed?

They were supposed to protect and care for innocents.

It would be hard to find a larger or more abused set of innocents anywhere in the galaxy to rival the clones. No parents. No friends. Created to fight and die in someone else’s war. Childhood stolen. No one interested in their future.

_Is that why we agreed to lead them?_

To step between them and the bureaucrats who had purchased them?

The Senate, the Republic, had agreed to take full responsibility for them. Unless and until the people fought back against that injustice, the clones were trapped in this war.

_We can’t get them out of that_ , Harissa realized, suddenly feeling frustrated. She’d never wanted a part in politics before. But _someone_ had to stand up for these men.

If Jedi couldn’t stop the injustice...

_The least we can do is bear it_ with _them, and try to lighten the load as much as possible. Try to keep as many of them alive as we can. Try to prepare them for something more. For freedom, the day it may come._

Was that why Ima-Gun was pushing them towards independence so fast? Harissa had seen plenty of reports; many, many holos of troopers.

She’d _never_ seen any who looked as vibrant as these boys, with their alternative hairstyles and aggressive tattoos. Or heard of a regiment so outspoken.

They were _very_ confident in their own opinions. Their identities.

_More confident than I am in mine._

_Is Master Di pushing them so fast because he doesn’t know how long he has with them? He wants them ready for anything?_

And had he chosen Harissa as his Padawan because he’d sensed another scared kid? One lacking confidence, not knowing how to shape her future? One who was focused on what she felt she’d been destined to, and unable to think of what she wanted to do with her life instead?

_Can he do with me what he’s doing with them?_

She hoped so. Oh, she hoped so.

Was part of that teaching her to let go of her self-conscious need for the shadows?

_Is_ that  _what yesterday’s public lightsaber flow was about?_

_I can be me and I don’t have to be afraid of others seeing that?_

“You okay?” Singe. Of course it was Singe.

Harissa gave him a quick nod. “Yeah. I just don’t know how to do this.” She gestured with her brush.

“Sort of like that.”

Harissa turned to follow his gesture, and discovered Skid making sweeps of his brush across his wall, giant, winding curves. Smaller arcs branched off, creating something that looked almost like a vine without leaves. He’d started in the center of his wall and worked outwards.

Mimic, on the other hand, had started at the upper right corner of his wall, and was working his way from there. His movements were much more precise, and on a far smaller scale as he followed a pattern only he could see.

Harissa glanced at Singe’s wall, discovered that he was working from the middle of the left side, and that Wek was working on the right side. Sort of. He kept zipping around, inspecting what everyone else was doing, and leaning out the windows to see the work outside.

“What if I mess up?”

Singe shrugged. “You can’t really mess up. It’s not like you’re following a pattern. Just start.”

“It won’t match the others.”

Singe scoffed and gestured again. “What? You think Mimic’s and Skid’s match?”

No. Definitely not.

The concept of the designs may have come from the same place, but the results were quite different.

“It’s what Wek wants. Isn’t that the important thing?”

What was going on behind those warm brown eyes?

_Your soul is older than your brothers’._

How had that happened?

Was it the suffering? Had he lost more than the others?

“Just start, and don’t think about it too much.” Singe reached out, placing his hand over hers. He guided the brush up and around, her hand going with it.

When he left, returning to his wall, Harissa stared at the three curving spirals on her own.

_Alright, Padawan Nol. Do your best._

She started with the second of the spirals, and added a sweep headed the other direction.

It didn’t look too bad.

That emboldened her to try again... and again... and again.

She began to understand the quirks of the brush. How by holding it flat or on edge she could vary the thickness of the curving lines.

_Dots. They sometimes add dots_. She snuck a quick glance over her shoulder, and sure enough, there they were. Mimic had a lot more than Skid. And Singe?

Singe wasn’t very far along. He had Wek sitting on his shoulders so the eight-year-old could paint the ceiling. The kid was leaning so far back that he would have toppled off had the trooper not had a very firm hold on his shins.

The spirals Wek was making were jerky, sharp-edged and uneven, but Harissa could sense his satisfaction. And for the record, he was putting splashes that probably were meant to be dots all over the place.

Good enough for her.

She put them where she felt like it.

It was a strangely freeing exercise.

A young voice started singing.

Harissa smiled as she continued working and listened to Wek.

It was a short, simple verse, about fields and rain and harvests.

_I know what that means now_ , she realized. Not the academic way, but the urgency in the boiling sun. The grim determination to _get_ that crop in the barn _before_ the rain could ruin it.

“It’s a round.”

Harissa glanced back. “Is it?”

“What’s a round?” Mimic asked.

“Many people singing the same words, at different times.”

_That_ sparked deep interest in Mimic. Harissa could feel the strong desire that flared to life.

_Something new for your voice to try._ Again, a smile lit the Padawan’s face.

“We’ll sing it a few times so you guys can get it. And then Singe and I will start, and when we get to the second line, Commander and Skid start. And when they get to the second line, Blinder and Threetu start. And when _they_ start the second line, Mimic goes. And we’ll sing it through twice like that.”

Without waiting for a response, Wek launched in. His voice was soon joined by five others, strong, clear, and confident.

It shocked Harissa.

These weren’t men who were unused to singing.

They knew their voices, and they weren’t ashamed of them.

Well.

How about that?

_How long are you boys going to keep surprising me?_

Harissa joined in. She wasn’t used to singing _words_ , but the principles were basically the same.

Her brush wavered.

Her eyes fell shut as she let herself fall into the music. It had been... _so long_... since the last time she’d done this.

A few deaths ago. After a few deaths.

It just... hadn’t felt the same to join the Jedi singing in the Room of a Thousand Fountains after she’d lost so many, though she knew she would have been welcomed.

Her eyes stung.

Reaching out in the Force, she touched each mind present.

No. They couldn’t reach back.

But that didn’t make the souls she caressed any less beautiful.

Wek’s, of course, was blazing like a newborn star. Every child Harissa had ever encountered did.

The five clones weren’t far behind him. _If_ at all.

So unique, so _different_...

“Now!” Wek announced, and began again.

Harissa kept track of her place, and picked up on cue.

Oh... now _this_ was beautiful.

Voices weaving in and out.

Such a simple song...

Now _so_ complex.

The troopers had no trouble keeping up in spite of the fact that they’d never sung in rounds before.

_So quick. Their minds are so good. They could do anything they set about to try, and probably faster than the average human._

Handicapped her butt.

Wek kept them in the round _longer_ than his stated two times.

Harissa could sense his delight, and sneakiness that was so loud Harissa half expected the _clones_ to pick it up.

The kid thought that if he just kept going, his friends might not notice, and would just keep the fun continuing.

The burning of threatening tears long gone, Harissa grinned as much as possible, and returned to her dark brown spirals.

Yes. Spots went there.

And another curling branch _here_.

Huh. There weren’t enough dots in that curving row of them she’d just made.

She added another two.

Finally Wek quit. He laughed in glee. “That was— that was _perfect_! Okay. Now it’s your turn. Pick something to sing.”

“Vode An.” The voice floated in through the window, quickly followed by Threetu’s head.

Peering in upside-down from the roof.

“What’s that?” Wek asked.

“It’s the Grand Army of the Republic’s anthem,” Singe explained as Wek scrambled down and back to his corner. Singe picked up his brush again. “All of our brothers sing it.”

“Yup.” Threetu grinned. “All the millions of us.”

Wek’s eyes widened.

“It’s not in Basic,” Skid volunteered. “So you’re not going to understand it.”

Wek shrugged. “How does it go?”

The five clones launched into song.

It nearly took Harissa’s breath away.

The majesty of their voices and the gravitas of the melody were beautiful, yes.

But even more amazing was what she could see in the Force.

The five went from... five to one.

Harissa couldn’t quite believe her senses.

It looked— it _looked_ like—

_Lightsaber flow._

_Sweet Force._

Granted, not being Force-sensitive, they couldn’t read one another’s minds. They might not even be aware of how _close_ they were together in this moment.

But... from what she could see of the three faces present— Threetu was back on the roof—

_They’re not_ unconscious _of it._

What must it be like to witness a whole regiment of them?

It had to be...

Unspeakable.

_I shouldn’t be here. I’m intruding._

But the clones sure didn’t think so. That much was clear. They were letting Wek and Harissa watch.

_Has Master Di heard this?_

Probably. He must have. He’d been with them since the war began.

That put the incident yesterday in yet _another_ light.

_I didn’t think that non-Force-sensitives’ minds could connect so deeply._

“I want to learn it,” was Wek’s response when they reached the end.

“But you don’t know what it means,” Skid pointed out.

Wek’s answer came back, quick and pleased. “You can tell me. Then I’ll know.”

“ _Vode an_ means ‘brothers all,’ in a language called Mando’a,” Skid explained.

An alarm klaxon blared through Harissa’s mind. “Mando’a— _wait_ — _Mandalorians_?” She spun away from the wall, staring at the three men who now looked at her in curious confusion.

“Sure.” Skid shrugged. “A lot of the bounty hunters hired to train us were Mando. They invented the song, and taught it to all of us. What’s wrong?”

“Mandalorians aren’t bounty hunters.” Harissa’s forehead furrowed in worry.

They were _mercs_.

And they _hated_ Jedi.

It was possible that they had killed as many of her kinsmen as Sith had.

“The ones teaching us were.”

“And they took orders from the Jedi in charge?”

“General Ti? She hadn’t been there very long when we were deployed. But I never heard of trouble. And the Shinies coming from there have nothing but praise for her.” Skid looked baffled. “Why would she fight with our instructors?”

Harissa was trying to figure out a way to explain to these boys that their teachers were the monsters under the bed.

Wek saved her from having to decide what to say. “‘Brothers all.’ What does that mean?”

The curiosity in Skid’s face was lost in this distraction. “It means that all of us clones are brothers. That we’re going to win, because we’re fighting against traitors. That we fight for the Republic.”

Well... that sure sounded anthem-like.

_It doesn’t have anything in there about killing Jedi, right?_

The thought was phrased with some humor, an attempt to shake away the misgivings the revelation had created.

_Paranoia, Harissa. They were hired because they’re the best of the best. You won’t deny_ that _, at least. They_ are _the best. They’re hired, because they’re mercs. They’ll fight for money, why not teach fighting for money? I’m sure the Master is keeping an eye on them. Master Ti, Skid said. Shaak Ti, I wonder?_

A Council member had her hawkbat-sharp eyes on the Mandos teaching the clone army.

That was going to have to be good enough.

_You don’t want these boys sent out with_ inferior _training, do you?_

No. Of course not.

They were singing again, Wek attempting to form the foreign words along with them.

_Why couldn’t they have taught it to them in Basic?_

But why _not_? This way, it was almost like a code for Skid and his brothers.

_They_ knew.

A casual passerby, who didn’t care about them, wouldn’t. It would go over their heads.

In a way, having it be in a language that the vast majority of the galaxy _didn't_ speak helped give the clones a place of privacy in the midst of continuous scrutiny.

Harissa relaxed.

That wasn’t so bad.

So as they started a third time, and Wek urged her to pitch in, she gave it a go.

The first part wasn’t too difficult. The second bit, when the words sped up, she found challenging.

It also resulted in laughter all around— and giggles on the young Li’s part— as Harissa and Wek tried again and again.

They succeeded.

Somehow, they managed.

Their accomplishment didn’t just please the two who’d made it. The clones seemed delighted as well.

“Now you.”

Harissa was caught by surprise when Wek turned to _her_. “What?”

“You teach us something.”

Harissa thought back to the first song she’d ever been taught. Simple phonemes, a simple melody... younglings, surrounded by forests and waterfalls, the spray dampening their cheeks, singing their hearts out.

They could learn that song.

And why not?

“My people don’t sing with words,” she explained. “We find harmonies that resonate with the grasses and the trees and the birds. And rocks. Rocks too.”

Wek moved over to her wall and added some dots of his own to her design. “Your people?”

“The Jedi.”

“Are there a lot of you?” he asked.

She nodded. “Not as many as Skid’s brothers, but there’s ten thousand of us.”

Wek’s eyes widened. “That’s a lot. Do they all look like you?”

“No. We all look different, and there’s many different species.”

“Like Mommy and Dad.”

“Just like.” Harissa smiled.

“Ten thousand. You have a big family, even if it isn’t as many as the other guys’.”

“True.” Harissa smiled down at him.

His expression turned earnest. “You don’t have any problems getting the harvest in before the rain, do you?”

The question was cute for the first half-second.

And then Harissa remembered the legal population of Coruscant. A trillion beings. It was guessed there might be as many as two trillion more who weren’t registered.

Coruscant alone.

Including every youngling, every knight in the various Corps, and every bedridden, retired Jedi, it meant one Jedi for every three hundred _million_ individuals.

And then there was the galaxy too.

People wanted to know why specific calls for help weren’t being answered by the Jedi. They claimed it was favoritism and corruption and pandering to the rich and political.

But the fact remained...

_There weren’t enough of us_ before _the war._

And now?

_No problems saving the harvest before it’s too late?_

Force. If only that were so.

She gave Wek a sad smile, but he missed it.

At his renewed request, Harissa taught him and the clones her song.

By the time they were singing comfortably with her, the fort’s transformation was complete.

Wek led them to the ground to look up at the outsides. His delight was unrestrained and it cheered Harissa’s heart.

No. They couldn’t help them all.

But each individual had infinite worth.

That was the only thing that kept Jedi from being overwhelmed by the impossible choices they had to make day in and out. Who to help. For every one they moved to aid, it left so many other calls unanswered.

The public was quick to complain and point fingers.

_If you people would just_ help _, there wouldn’t be a problem_ , she thought, resentment forming in her gut. _But no._ You _don’t have to help the people around you since that’s_ our _job. You want us to fix_ everything _for you. Take a little responsibility, would you? That care for your fellow being that you’re yelling_ we _don’t have, how about_ you _show some? Surely you’re tearing us down because_ you _care more than we do. Oh— wait. You_ don’t _?_

Singe was eyeing her.

Harissa cleared her face of the frown and sent him a forced smile.

His eyebrow quirked.

She obviously hadn’t fooled him.

It was getting difficult to see, so the clones turned on their blasters’ lights, and the seven tromped through the trees to take Wek home.

Another day of quiet.

How long could it last?

The door to the Li house opened, spilling golden light into the yard.

“Mom. Mom? Can we sleep out in the fort tonight? _Please_?”

Harissa smiled down at him. She could just see him and Neici—

_Wait. He means_ us _._

Berri looked up at Harissa.

Sleepover.

Harissa had heard of such a thing.

It was something civvie kids did.

Berri’s gaze traveled to the clones. “Would you like that, boys?”

“Sleeping?” Skid asked, clearly confused.

Berri chuckled. “You didn’t come in to eat. I’d send you out a picnic dinner, lanterns, and blankets.”

“Is there any particular reason to expect the fort to be in danger?” Blinder asked, threat evaluation kicking in.

Berri’s smile turned gentle. “A sleepover isn’t to guard something. It’s to spend time with friends in a place that you usually don’t, at a time when you usually don’t.”

The clones exchanged puzzled looks.

Threetu shrugged. “It’s an experience, right? The General is big on experiences. Never painted a tree fort before either, but did that.”

“What if something happens? And we’re needed but we’re not there?” Blinder shook his head. “It’s not regulation.”

Threetu scoffed. “Regulation? Listen to you. We’re not far from the base, and the Three-thirty-seventh doesn’t _do_ things by regulation. We do ’em by what the General says. So I say we ask.”

“I still don’t understand the point,” Mimic admitted. “Eat, and then... what?”

“Talk.” Wek sent him a decisive nod. “Tell stories. Make animal-shaped shadows with our hands.”

That intrigued Mimic. “How do you do that?”

“I’ll show you.”

Harissa realized Berri was watching her again.

_What? What is it? Is it that I’m older than the clones, but I look so much younger?_

“I want to stay,” Mimic spoke up, the shadows apparently having decided it.

Skid shrugged. “I’d be crazy to turn down dinner.”

“Sure.” Singe sent Berri a nod.

“It’s anti-regulation,” was Threetu’s blithe reasoning for accepting, and he threw Blinder a challenging glance.

“Skid’s right about dinner,” Blinder admitted after a moment.

Five pairs of dark eyes turned to Harissa’s face.

“Oh. Uh. Sure. I mean, whatever Master Di says.”

“May I?” Berri held out her hand for Harissa’s comlink.

Uncertain, the Padawan gave it to her.

“General Di? This is Berri Li.”

It took but a moment for her Master to respond. “This is Di. Is something wrong?”

“No, no. My son would like to have a sleepover in his new fort. Would it be alright for the clones and the young lady to stay? I’d feed them dinner and make sure they didn’t get to sleep too late.”

Harissa wished she could read her Master in the Force from this far away. Was he surprised by the request?

_It’s sort of stupid._ Embarrassment whispered to life.

“Alright. I want them back before lunch tomorrow.”

“Thank you, General Di. You’ve made one eight-year-old very happy.”

“Glad to hear it. Di out.”

It didn’t take long for the seven to be loaded with baskets of food, blankets, pillows, and lanterns.

Harissa turned from the door, arms wrapped around a shockingly fluffy blanket, only to be paused by Berri.

“Try to be a kid, just for tonight.”

An awkward smile ghosted across Harissa’s face. “I’ve— seen too much.”

Berri placed her hand on Harissa’s shoulder. “You may think so. But somewhere in there, there’s still a child. Let her out, just for a little while. It’s been so long since she’s had fun.”

Harissa gave her a nod, since she had no idea what else to do, and hurried away.

She wasn’t sure what Berri had meant.

That didn’t keep her throat from closing and her eyes from burning.

_I’ve lost so many Masters. I’ve been in battle. I’ve held dying men. You can’t go back from that. And the battles will return. I can’t_ afford _to be a kid anymore. People need me._

Wek presided over the placement of the lanterns and blankets, and then unpacked the baskets.

The low, yellow light cast harsh shadows across the clones as they made short work of the food. Harissa listened with half an ear to Wek and the clones’ storytelling.

The walls, now murky, held most of her attention.

They didn’t match, but somehow managed to fit together in a weirdly beautiful tapestry.

Leaning back against a stack of pillows, Harissa let her eyelids fall shut as she simply listened.

So lighthearted. So carefree.

In the Force, happy blazes of light.

If she hadn’t heard the deepness of the clones’ voices, she could have made the assumption it was a tree fort full of kids.

_And me._

Her Force-signature didn’t match theirs. Not remotely.

She tried to see it clearly.

It was tight. On edge, as though expecting everything good around her to shatter at any moment.

Mimic was lending his voice skills to the storytelling now. Laughter rang through the cool night air.

Harissa could sense the fluffy insects gathering at the lanterns. Tiny specs of life in the Force.

Be a kid, just for tonight.

Why did that matter to Berri? Why would she care?

Harissa recognized the nurturing tendency in the Zabrak. The self-forgetting care for the young.

_She’s a mother. She’s made out of the same stuff as the Clan Mothers back at the Temple._

_She’s mothering me._

What would it take to match her own Force-signature to those around her?

_I’d have to let go of everything._

All the pain, all the fear, all the grief.

She’d have to let in a sense of wonder. She’d need to revel in the newness around her.

_Can I do that?_

Was it _safe_ to do that?

Harissa was prepared right now. When a blow came, she wouldn’t be caught unawares. Disaster was always an eyeblink away, and she was braced against it.

_I’d have to lower my guard._

It was one thing to relax with her Master, or even the clones back at the base. That was just accepting the awful. They all knew it was hovering over them. It was finding something good in spite of the bad.

She could sit here in calm peace, enjoying the sense of those around her. That _was_ relaxing. She would enjoy it. She would smile, maybe even laugh some.

But could she join in... _really_ join in?

Skid was laughing so hard he almost couldn’t breathe, slapping his thigh armor. Mimic was so engrossed in his parody that everything else had ceased to exist. Even for Singe, the war was a million kilometers away.

_I’m fourteen. Humans at fourteen like spending time with friends._

_I_ am _a kid._

She’d had her time of thinking herself grown up. That confidence in her maturity had died along with her first Masters.

If she really _was_ practically an adult, wouldn’t she have been able to do more to prevent the horrible things that had happened to them?

Since then, she’d never doubted her kid status. Her fellow Padawans all felt they were pretty much knights already. Maybe they were. Harissa didn’t think it was her place to decide.

_But if I have no doubt I’m a kid, why can’t I_ be  _a kid like Berri meant it?_

She fell asleep before she’d found an answer to the question.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Harissa awoke disoriented.

She’d fallen asleep sitting up.

She was lying on her side now, a blanket tucked around her and a pillow under her head.

Sitting up, she discovered the clones were sprawled across the floor and starting to stir as well.

Wek was already wide awake. And missing.

The rope ladder creaked, and he appeared, hauling a massive basket up with him. “I have breakfast!”

That got the clones upright in an instant.

“How did I end up on the floor?” Harissa demanded, a little unsettled that it had been accomplished without her noticing.

Wek handed her a pastry. “Mom came to tell us to go to sleep. You already were. So she tucked you in.”

Harissa wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but allowed herself to focus on the food instead.

Maybe she’d found that place of kiddom last night, in sleep. After all, she’d responded to being moved like a child would, not someone just waiting for trouble.

It was the only explanation Harissa could come up with. She just _didn’t_ sleep through things. Definitely not things that colossal.

It made her feel vulnerable.

It also made her feel a little less bad that she hadn’t followed Berri’s deeply-felt request. After all... apparently she _had_.

Breakfast eaten, they helped Wek with his chores. Drawing water, checking on the swiftly-growing new crop, opening the barn doors for airflow purposes, feeding the small collection of livestock and avians.

Then Wek was off to school, and the members of the GAR wandered back to their own territory.

They didn’t make it inside the courtyard. Instead, in the grassy area out front, Threetu had an idea.

Mock fight.

His squad thought it made sense, and Harissa _did_ have a secret desire to discover just how she would measure up to them in combat...

Blasters turned so low their bolts would only sting, lightsaber tuned to a similar intensity, the battle began.

Five clones, one Padawan.

Swiping bolts out of the air, Harissa had to keep moving as her friends circled to outflank her.

She could easily deflect their bolts... but not if they were coming from every direction at once.

Of course, this wasn’t a game to determine whether she could _hold them off_. She needed to defeat them, if possible.

Blinder was on his way to the treeline. The other four were in continuous motion, keeping carefully out of reach.

Force-leaping, Harissa landed behind Threetu. She slammed her lightsaber blade into his back.

Swearing with a grin on his face, Threetu retreated to the wall to watch.

Singe drew his second pistol and made up for the lack of Threetu’s bolts.

Precise shots started coming in at her head.

Blinder must have found himself a hidey-hole.

This time, when Harissa Force-lept towards Skid, she overshot him by a _lot_.

The instant he’d seen her tense for the spring, he’d started running _towards_ her.

Harissa barely caught all the bolts coming for her back.

So she ran for the clones.

They danced out of her way.

It shouldn’t be this difficult. They didn’t have the Force.

_But they’ve watched my Master for over a year. Wonder if they’ve seen him do_ this _._

Flinging out her left hand, she seized Skid in the Force and dragged him to her. She smacked him in the chest with her blade, and just barely had time to deflect bolts from Singe, Blinder, and Mimic.

No.

Not Mimic.

Where _was_ Mimic?

She stretched out to the Force, but she had to focus on the flurry of light coming her way.

_Not good, not good, not good._

Time for drastic measures. She Force-pushed Singe.

He flew backwards, but landed crouched, metal fingers digging into the grass, slowing his slide.

And then a bolt caught her between the shoulderblades.

Dazed, Harissa turned to discover Mimic.

“I did _not_ sense that coming,” she admitted, breathing hard. “You people are _good_.”

Blinder jogged over to join his four brothers.

“Not bad yourself,” Skid pointed out. “You took out almost half the squad.”

“And _died_.” Harissa huffed a laugh through her nose. “Next time you guys come after me, I should just run.”

Grinning, they tromped into the courtyard.

Harissa took note of the completed AT-TE as they passed through the deserted area and on into the mess.

When she was greeted with enthusiasm over her “fight” with Ima-Gun on the Recovery, it didn’t horrify her.

To her own shock, it didn’t even bother her.

_I’m... changing._

And fast.

She’d only been here for a week.

Lunch was a leisurely, drawn-out affair.

It wasn’t hard to pick up on the discontent. Everywhere around the room clones were muttering about being forced to sit still when they could be out there _fighting_.

It baffled Harissa.

Yes, she could see how they might be _bored_ , but wasn’t that better than terrified and dying?

When she asked Skid about it, he didn’t understand her confusion. “Fighting is in our blood,” he explained through a full mouth. “It’s what we _do_. Our _job_. We want to get back to it.”

The grumbling resolved itself in art.

No longer willing or able to wile away time with food, sheets of flimsi were produced, and scriblings began. Some of the men were drawing on their own, instead of asking Sketch to do it for them.

She even saw some of the bored clones drawing on their hands and fingers.

Threetu pushed a couple tables out of his way, and set up to ink new tattoos. Bandage settled in for the same purpose and cut the line in half.

Razors were produced, and men helped one another touch up the hair tattoos, or completely change the style being worn.

For a long time she sat on top of one of the tables and watched the tattooing and hair styling. Once she tired of that, she snagged a sheet of flimsi and tried her hand at scrollwork again.

When she looked up, she found that a reasonable dinner hour had been reached. Clones continued their projects, consuming food around the talking and focus.

As afternoon turned to evening, some of the men left. Others lounged back and scrubbed their shining blasters or equally-clean armor.

Kenn entertained them with a wide array of songs he’d picked up somewhere. When his brothers were familiar with a chorus, they’d chime in, not raising their eyes from whatever project currently held their attention.

Some of the songs Harissa had heard pieces of before, most she hadn’t.

She’d completed bordering her flimsi long before, and had proceeded to fill the center.

That done, she’d accepted an offered cloth and had worked it over every curve and angle of her lightsaber. She’d moved from that to her boots... and then she watched everyone else for a while.

A clone who’s name she didn’t know yet set a small stack of flimsis on the table beside her, and moved on.

Harissa glanced at them, then did a double-take.

She recognized Sketch’s portrait style.

The subject?

Herself.

Herself with...

She snatched them up, hardly believing her eyes.

Hair styled like Sketch’s. Hair down with a streak of white and bangs. Hair cut short and spiked. Hair worn long and down on one half of her head, and very short with a design cut into it on the other.

Flipping through the pages she found option after option.

Shock turned to amusement.

These hadn’t been _given_ to her. Just... made... accessible.

They’d come for Ima-Gun’s ship.

_Me?_

She smiled at the thought, and re-studied the images.

As long as she kept her Padawan braid, she was allowed to wear her hair however she pleased.

She’d never really considered the possibilities. At first she hadn’t cared, and then, when her problems became much larger than reaching class on time, she hadn’t had the heart. She wore it this way now because it was out of the way.

She’d stopped thinking about it; it was just habit. About like pulling on her boots and clipping the lightsaber to her belt.

It didn’t _have_ to be that way.

_If Master Di_ had _hair, how would he wear it?_

That speculation reached far beyond her short relationship with him. Maybe in a few years she’d be able to answer it with reasonable accuracy. Maybe not.

Would he mind if she changed her look so drastically?

Somehow, she couldn’t see him disapproving of it.

_So it’s up to me._

It had seemed unspeakably unimportant before her friendship with the clones.

She glanced down at her clothes.

Traditional Jedi cut.

She hadn’t picked it because that’s what she wanted to look like. The patterns were readily available, the fabrics easy to work with and plentiful, and if she ran into problems, practically any Jedi would have been able to give her pointers.

That was the sum total of Harissa’s wardrobe consideration.

She’d never wondered what she might like her look to be.

Clothing and hair as a method of self-expression and sharing what she liked felt foreign.

When she retired to her room, she took the pages with her, along with her spiral-covered flimsi.

She hung her scrollwork up across from her bunk.

It... made the room feel just a bit more friendly.

Spreading Sketch’s drawings across the bed, she pulled her hair out of its bun and shook it out. She retrieved the small mirror from her emergency kit.

She didn’t like the images with short hair. Or the strange colors. Or the spikes.

She considered her hair in the mirror. Glossy. Black. Plenty _of_ it. Currently it reached to her shoulderblades.

_I wonder._

There was one sketch that attracted her.

The one where the hair fell long on one side and not on the other.

The only thing about it was that she didn’t like the fuzz on that other side, patterned though it might be.

Giving up, she tied it all back and moved the flimsis out of the way.

She didn’t have to decide tonight.

 

* * *

 

The eighth morning of her new apprenticeship forced Harissa to admit to boredom.

Yes.

She was beginning to understand the clones’ agitation.

_I didn’t come here to make friends and draw pictures._

The knowledge that elsewhere in the galaxy fierce battles were being fought didn’t help.

She’d asked Sketch to come up with more ideas similar to the hairstyle she’d almost liked. She’d tried to ease Ced’s worries over the fact that he hadn’t received a reply to his letter. And when she couldn’t stand it anymore, she’d sought out her Master.

_He_ asked her if she knew the name of every clone on base.

That answer being a definite _no_ , he’d told her that she should come to him with boredom issues only _after_ that had been accomplished.

So Skid had made a game of it.

His brothers, since they were just as bored as their Commander, pitched in, and she’d managed to learn the names of a good forty of them. Twenty more were iffy. Who knew how many she’d be able to spit back correctly tomorrow, but the fact remained that she’d done her best with Ima-Gun’s assignment.

And it _had_ made the morning far less tedious than she’d feared.

As she walked from man to man, each gave her his name and then in three sentences, summed up who he was.

At the moment, she was just plum memorizing those three lines and trying to connect them with the faces they belonged to.

Left. Had a tiny _leth_ underneath his left eye.

He was left-handed. Once he’d fallen asleep, and been left behind on a long, arduous march. He had to run for three hours straight to catch up.

Sevnine. Cybernetic right eye.

Minorly obsessed with tookas, and wanted one as soon as he mustered out of the army. Changed his hairstyle just about every month because he didn’t like the sensation of standing still. A bit hyperactive.

Harissa changed his statement to _very_ hyperactive in the privacy of her own mind.

Bandage.

No, wait. She already knew the medic.

And then discovered she actually _didn’t_ , because she she was surprised by his three sentences.

The longer the morning dragged, the more creative the clones became with those descriptives. They’d had time to consider and collaborate on them.

After lunch, Harissa was about to start into the continuing effort, even though she wasn’t sure her brain could hold more at this point, when a welcome distraction presented itself. Wek’s school had let them out early, and he’d brought his friends up to see the base.

The tour was quick but loud, the kids delighted at seeing the strange sights.

And, when she recited the list of names and sentences she’d learned to Ima-Gun, he gave her permission to follow the children back to the village.

The clones weren’t interested, so they stayed put.

Harissa tried to pay attention to the purple-tattooed adorables as they led her to the village, but it was difficult.

Her mind was full of questions.

Foremost, how would this place differ from Reltu?

A fifteen-minute’s walk brought her to the edge of Kertu. It had two main drags, with smaller streets branching out. Houses and what appeared to be little shops lined them.

A happy bustle filled it all out. Kertuns of every age, gender and species pursued business or leisure as they saw fit.

It took but a moment for the kids to forsake Harissa to go join their friends playing games in the street. Bare little feet pattered on the hard-packed dirt, and squeals of laughter joined the ambiance.

The Kertuns _had_ to be noticing Harissa’s presence. She didn’t exactly _fit in_ , and in a place this size, they had to all know each other. That said, they weren’t staring at her or taking any obvious note.

Walking down the road, she simply observed. Fruit and vegetables were being sold, fabrics shown off, pottery was being cast on spinning discs.

Harissa opened herself to the Force.

Yes, the focus of these people might be limited, but they didn’t seem _unhappy_.

_They sure aren’t_ hiding _._

They had to be aware of the army in their backyard.

In the shadow of a doorway, Harissa caught sight of a familiar symbol.

The crest that had been tattooed into Head Rassid’s forehead.

Instead of light blue, this was purple, matching the rest of the people she’d seen here so far. The bearer was a wizened little human woman, her gnarled fingers weaving thin strips of wood together.

The other two individuals in the alcove, a female Rodian and another female human, looked to be middle-aged, and were working on more-completed baskets.

“Excuse me,” Harissa spoke up, moving closer. “Are you Head of Kertu?”

Clear blue eyes smiled up into her face. “I used to be, my Dear, but these old legs just don’t like the walking anymore. I just sit here making baskets and watch while the younger people do all the work.”

“Could I sit?”

“Of course! Here, Tanka, move over a little. That’s a dear.”

The Rodian having made room, Harissa sat on the low step beside her.

“This is Tanka and Demmi. They’re kind enough to keep an old woman company.”

“Psh,” scoffed Demmi. “She thinks _she’s_ the one being favored.” Tanka and Demmi shared a laugh.

“And your name is?” Harissa asked, studying the laugh-lines around the former Head’s eyes.

“Berri.”

Harissa didn’t try to hide her surprise. “I know a Berri. Berri Li.”

“Ah,” Berri smiled. “Good woman. Sweet, but tough as durasteel. And very strong. Goodness, the weight she can lift! If you like, you can call me Berri the Elder. Berri is a very common name here on New Draxis; I would be surprised if you _didn’t_ run into any more during your stay here. Now, what’s _your_ name?”

“I’m Padawan Harissa Nol.”

“So formal,” Berri the Elder teased. “How long have you been a Padawan?”

“A week and a day.” It might be a simplified and technically incorrect answer, but Harissa didn’t want to hold on to the time before that.

Berri nodded, her gaze dropping to her weaving again as she threaded a new strip of wood into it. “I’m glad you finally made your way down here.”

“You were aware of my presence?” Harissa asked, surprised.

Berri chuckled. “Oh yes. Just like I know you were in Reltu recently, helping them recover. We may not have overt technology, but we keep track of our own. New Draxis is a small community made up of many small communities.”

“Does each village have its own color of tattoos?” Harissa glanced at the purple tracings across Tanka’s green head. _So that’s what the colors in my survival kit are for. Faking tattoos._

“That we do. It’s a millenia-old custom. And speaking of that...” Berri leaned over and rummaged through a large brown jar. “Ah. Here.”

Harissa looked down at Berri’s open palm to discover two handmade glass beads. “They’re pretty.”

“They’re for you, silly.” Berri spilled them into Harissa’s hand. “Each village you visit, ask for their color. Make something pretty for yourself. Maybe dress up that soft hair of yours.”

Harissa rolled the beads in her palm. Light blue, and a purple that matched Kertu’s color exactly. “I don’t know that they’d want to. Reltu wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about our presence.”

“Rassid is paranoid,” Berri declared. “But he— and they— have every right to be.”

Harissa closed her fingers over the beads. “So would you. The reasons he gave me were very solid. If New Draxis is so tightly knit, why aren’t you afraid of us?”

“Darling, New Draxis has been a point of contention in this war almost since the start. The clone army has been here for a year and a half. Not your boys specifically; we had many other Jedi cycle through with _their_ regiments before your Master came. It’s given us a chance to observe. We have nothing to fear from you.”

“But the Three-Thirty-Seventh has been on your doorstep four months. Aren’t you concerned the men will get bored? Start harassing you?” The undercurrent of discomfort that had stayed with her since her conversation with Rassid bubbled to the surface. “Even decent individuals can cause trouble when drunk.”

“A drunk clone. That _isn’t_ something New Draxis has encountered. They certainly aren’t going to learn it from their Jedi Generals, now are they? Or is it a myth that Jedi don’t drink?”

“It interferes with our connection to the Force. It’s not _forbidden_ , but we do avoid it.”

“See, Rassid refuses to believe his eyes. He’s convinced that the GAR can’t be any different than any other army. It doesn’t matter to him that we’ve had ample proof he’s wrong.”

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

“What do you mean?” The part of Harissa’s heart that had remained sunk since that day in Reltu rose. Was it possible? _Had_ Rassid been mistaken?

“I’m sure he described his definition of an army to you.”

Harissa nodded. “It was a pretty ugly picture. He said that it didn’t matter which side they fought for, they all treated you about the same.”

Berri snorted out a laugh. “Yes. The conquering army treated us poorly because we were supposedly the enemy. The liberators treated us poorly because they were here to rescue us so they thought we _owed_ them anything and everything they wanted.”

“Which army is which in this war?” The question wasn’t an easy one to ask, but Harissa feared the answer was necessary.

Berri laughed again. “We want to stay with the Republic. Can’t tell you how many times in the past Jedi have come to help us out. Many of our system’s internal wars only stopped because Jedi were able to facilitate peace negotiations. That’s thousands of years of history, my dear. If we left the Republic, we’d be out of jurisdiction, and though our cousins in system are fond of fighting, they like having Jedi mediation as a possibility. Besides. Many of the planets siding with the Separatists have trampled on us in the past, and we’re not interested in helping them. Why turn on the planets who have sent us aid, like Alderaan? It makes no sense for us to want the Separatists.”

“Do you see us as protectors? Or are we just here trompling on you, fighting a war you have no stake in?”

Berri drew another shaft from a dish filled with water. She tested it to see if it was supple enough, and then tucked its end into her weaving and continued. “I don’t know what Rassid said to you, but we do _not_ want the Separatist droids here. We want you to kick them out. A droid army isn’t like a living army. There’s nothing in our homes they could want. They loot and destroy them _anyway_. They have no reason to harm bystanders who keep back and don’t resist or assist the GAR.

“They do it anyway.” Berri shook her head, and for the first time, her face turned grim.

Tanka sighed and ran the suckers of her fingers over her head. “It would be a matter of simple reprogramming. Making it against their protocols to burn our villages and terrorize us. And New Draxis isn’t the only planet to have petitioned the Separatist Leadership for that to happen. They’ve ignored us. Done nothing to stop the carnage.”

“Maybe they can’t do that for the droids in the field,” Harissa guessed.

Tanka snorted a laugh through her long mouth. “It would take very little effort to make sure all the new droids being manufactured had the changed orders. They’re being made at top-speed, and the GAR is scrapping the old ones so fast that even if they just did that, the problem would be solved rather quickly. The costs would be minimal. But no. It’s not going to happen. And they complain about _Republic_ corruption.”

“You said the clones are different. Not just the Three-Thirty-Seventh, but the other regiments that have come here too?”

Berri’s smile was back and bright as ever. “True. Not only have they _not_ exhibited those negative traits, they’ve tried to help us recover from what the droids do to us. They’ve shared with us, they’re considerate, they’re even _polite_. In all our thousands of years of experience, we’ve encountered hundreds of armies. _Never_ has one broken the mould. Yours has.”

The tight feeling in Harissa’s gut eased. It had been so difficult, the lurking fear that the men she was getting to know might moonlight as arrogant conquerors. It didn’t make sense given what she’d seen, but she’d figured Rassid knew what he was talking about. He had experience, and she didn’t, after all.

_How could I have thought Skid could intentionally terrorize civilians?_ she wondered. _Or Sketch, or Ned, or Kenn, or Blinder?_ Really _?_

The fact remained that she was a long distance away from knowing every clone in the GAR. _And Rassid sounded so sure of himself..._

“What makes the difference, do you think?” Harissa asked.

“ _I’d_ like to answer that one,” Demmi spoke up. “They’re cut from similar cloth to you Jedi. They aren’t fighting for themselves. At their core, there seems to be selflessness. I don’t know if that was built into them, or trained into them, but it’s _there_. Just like with you Jedi. They’ve been here four months, but are they marching up and down our streets? No. Are they billeting themselves in our homes and requisitioning our supplies? No. If they want something they ask, and they _pay_ for it. One could forget they were even here. Their goal seems to be to inconvenience us as little as possible. _And_ they focus heavily on protecting us. Maybe a week before you got here, the droids were close to taking Beltu. Your master and his men stayed in harm’s way long after any other military leader would have pulled clear. A lot of men died, but they fought until Beltu could evacuate. Not a single Beltun died.”

Harissa’s heart quickened.

That was her Master. That was her boys. Standing between the innocent and disaster.

_That’s what we_ do _. We Jedi haven’t forsaken our jobs. We’ve moved right to where it’s the worst._

How could they _not_?

How could they stay behind the lines of battle, tending to the injured and dispossessed and bereaved and _not_ try to _stop_ it from happening again and again and again?

Many Jedi felt they shouldn’t be part of this war. They should focus on relief missions instead.

_It’s like what Master Di said my first day here. We have to stop the source._

They needed to bring this war to an _end_.

“Padawan Nol?”

Harissa’s head came up to discover Berri’s twinkling eyes aimed for her.

“You went somewhere in your mind, my dear.”

A tiny smile accompanied Harissa’s answer. “I thought that maybe the people we were fighting for felt we were just as bad as the droids.”

“I have no doubt there are such unreasonable people somewhere,” Berri returned, her expression and voice taking on a playful, lofty tone. “Just like Rassid _will_ insist on his paranoia. But you don’t need to worry about them, Dear. You just do what you do, and do your best. That’s what counts.”

Harissa shook her head. “You don’t know me. How do you know that what I do is _good_? I could be a killer, for all you know.”

That triggered laughter from all three women.

Harissa’s eyebrows arched as she took it in.

_I was being_ serious _, you know..._

_“_ Yessir and Zeroes sometimes wander down here and sit with me,” Berri explained. “Zeroes was very impressed with his new Commander. Three of the squad are dead. It was just Web and Yessir left of the boys they’d grown up with. Web was horribly wounded in that first battle of yours.”

Harissa’s gut twisted.

“An explosion separated them. Yessir couldn’t find Web in the chaos of the battle. He kept searching, but no one could remember seeing what happened to him. Meanwhile, Web had been hauled off the battlefield. He was lying on the ground, bleeding out, suffering, alone. He had nothing to hold on to. Yessir wasn’t there. That meant he was dead, didn’t it? So why try to live?”

Zeroes and Yessir hadn’t been among the clones she’d memorized today. Even so, Harissa had to blink hard against her stinging eyes.

Berri just kept going, as though she hadn’t noticed Harissa’s tension. “Someone came and sat beside Web. She held his hand, stroked his forehead. She _cared_ , and he could feel it. Her tears were dampening his hand. He realized that there might be more to the universe than loss. There might be good. And it might be worth living to find out. So instead of allowing himself to slip away, he held on. He fought. And when the medics came for him, he was still alive.”

A tear slipped down Harissa’s cheek in spite of her efforts to restrain it.

“They recognized the web-shaped tattoo on his face, and told Yessir they’d found him. The reason why Yessir isn’t here visiting with us today is because today Web is returning from his convalescence on the ship. He was in bacta for days, and confined to the medward after that. They’re releasing him now.”

Web-shaped tattoo...

And then Harissa knew who he was.

Squeezing her eyes shut against the emotions that came roaring back, she found herself there again. She could smell the stench of that field, feel the tears running down her face, feel the shaking pressure of the trooper’s hand gripping hers right back. See the face drained pale from blood loss and pain. Could feel her fingertip lightly tracing the tattoo of a web on that face.

He was the first one Bandage had taken, instead of her Master.

Harissa choked back a sob.

He’d survived. He’d _survived_.

He’d _lived_.

Pressing the back of her hand against her lips, she tried to preserve physical composure. It might be alright to _feel_ it, but to _show_ it?

A hand on her shoulder. She could feel the suckers on the ends of the fingers. Tanka, then.

She opened her eyes and swiped her sleeve over them.

She hadn’t seen him since that horrible day, and she’d assumed he was among those they’d burned. She definitely hadn’t had the heart to ask.

“He’s okay,” she rasped.

“Yes. Thanks to you, both he and his brother are going to be okay.” Berri’s voice was gentle now.

Harissa drew in and let out a deep breath, blinking the last moisture from her eyes.

Berri smiled at her. “And it’s not just Yessir who thinks so highly of you. Wek is very enthusiastic about you as a person and what you’ve done with his treefort. The song you shared with him? He taught it to his classmates. So no, it’s not true that we don’t know anything about you. We know what’s important. The stories are spreading, my dear. I think you’ll find the other villages happy to add to your bead collection. Except Rassid. But that’s why I gave you Reltu’s blue.”

Somehow, a smile lit Harissa’s face.

“You may not be a knight yet, but when you wear our colors out on the field of battle, they’ll remind you who you’re fighting for. It’s not just an impersonal government. It’s us. The people hurt by Separatist aggression. When you doubt yourself, look at those beads. That’s our confidence in you. It’s time to believe in yourself.”

The Padawan was starting to see why this woman had been Head of her village.

Harissa felt the small spheres, warm in her hand. “I’ve never _owned_ something before,” she admitted. It was a strange sensation, knowing those tiny objects belonged to her and her alone. “Two sets of clothes, my hairtie, and my lightsaber. That’s it.”

“Don’t you have a ship and a droid?” Demmi asked.

Harissa shook her head. “They’re not mine. They belong to the Republic. And my gear is Temple-issue.” Opening her hand, she looked at its contents. “Thank you.”

“No. Thank _you_. Now. Do you want to be on hand when Web returns?”

Harissa sprang to her feet. “ _Yes_.”

“Get going, then,” Berri commanded, her eyes twinkling. “Goodbye, Padawan Nol.”

“You can call me Harissa. I’ll see you later. It was good to meet you, Tanka, Demmi.”

They nodded back to her, and Harissa sped down the street.

“Bye Commander!” The words were a chorus of many little voices.

She recognized one of those calling after her. Glancing back, she saw Wek surrounded by his friends, all waving.

“Bye,” she called back, throwing them a grin.

She reached the base, and discovered three gunships not usually present parked in an open space. _He’s here._

As she reached the mess, she realized that a _lot_ of men had been away due to their injuries. The mess hall was positively _teeming_ with life.

How was she going to locate Yessir and Web?

_Padawan. The Force_ , she chided herself. Standing in the doorway, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to travel back to that moment once again.

There.

That was what Web looked like in the Force.

Keeping her eyes shut, Harissa moved into the mess. She evaded tables and clones as she sensed their positions. Scanning... scanning...

There it was.

Through the many colors of light in this room, she felt the one she was looking for. The far corner. It didn’t have the strain and despair of a week ago, but wasn’t fully recovered either. There was still a bit of weariness. Probably some soreness.

Not opening her eyes, and staying focused so she wouldn’t lose him, Harissa sped through the mess.

She reached a place where no other lights were between her and the one she pursued. Opening her eyes, she saw two clones in the corner, talking in low tones, angled away from the loud chaos of the room.

She wanted to go over to them, to make contact.

But they seemed... very happy on their own. And focused.

So instead, she settled herself at the closest empty table and just watched them in the Force. Web looked a bit pale still, and Harissa could see a newly-healed scar down his neck, disappearing into his bodysuit.

“Hey, Mom.”

Startled, Harissa spun around to find Threetu settling himself across from her place at the table. “Why are you calling me that?”

He threw her a grin and a shrug. “So what’s so interesting? Yessir and Web?”

“How did Yessir get his name? Web, I can see.”

“Yessir is very regulation. There isn’t a man in the Three-Thirty-Seventh more so. As a cadet, he studied the reg manuals like it was a hobby. He would anticipate routine orders and be saying ‘Yes, Sir’ almost before they were done giving them.”

Harissa smiled at the mental image. “I had an interesting conversation with Head Berri down in Kertu today.”

“Mm. She’s a pretty special civvie.”

“So I discovered. I was just wondering, do you feel like you behave differently from the rest of clones under Jedi command?”

“Have you seen Sketch’s hair?” Threetu deadpanned.

Harissa reached across the table to slap the top of his hand. “Be serious, please.”

“Yes, Mom.”

That again. Harissa ignored it. “I mean, does the Three-Thirty-Seventh treat innocent bystanders better than other regiments?”

“No?” Threetu looked baffled. “What are you asking?”

“Have you ever heard of clones picking on a population? Maybe... Separatist-favoring civvies? Do they ever... rough them up?”

Threetu’s eyes widened in shock. “No. No, I’ve never heard of anything like that. Those civvies would be _traitors_ , but if they aren’t attacking us, we don’t go after them. I mean, sure. There’s been times when we’ve had to pull Sevnine back from trying to take a swing at somebody bad-mouthing the General or the Republic, but we’re here to _protect_ these people, not _scare_ them.”

“All the millions of you feel that way?”

“Yeah.” The answer seemed obvious to Threetu. “I don’t get why you’re asking.”

_Because even after talking with Berri, I’m ready to assume the worst of your brothers, because one man told me that war_ can’t  _be different._

She couldn’t very well say _that_ aloud.

Threetu picked up on her embarrassment, though missing the cause. “Hey. Don’t worry about it. You can ask me anything. Even weird stuff. I mean, it’s easy to forget you’ve only been around us for a week. Of course you’ve got questions. I’m good with it.”

“Thanks, Threetu.”

“Sure. _Mom_.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped her. “What are you doing?”

“Making you laugh, apparently.” He grinned. “And if you want to talk to Web or Yessir, you’re going to have to go interrupt them. They won’t notice you’re waiting otherwise. They get too focused on what they’re talking about.”

“Okay. Thanks for the tip.”

“Anytime.” Threetu slipped away, heading for Blinder.

The brothers who’d so nearly lost one another the week before felt very content in the Force. _I’ll talk to them later. They should have this evening together unharassed._

She choked down something that could have been described as dinner, and decided to find her Master.

Sketch intercepted her on her way out of the mess. “Got some more sketches for you.” He held them up, but didn’t hand them to her.

Inspecting them, Harissa dismissed five ideas, pointed to two that were closer... but still not quite what she was after. Not that she really knew what that was going to end up _being_.

“And can we figure out a way to incorporate these?”

Sketch lifted the beads from her outstretched hand and inspected them. “Any particular reason?”

“Former Head Berri of Kertu suggested I collect them. One for each village I visit.”

“She’s a good civvie.”

Harissa hid her amused smile.

Apparently the old woman had made as good an impression on the clones as they had on her.

“Can I keep these overnight? I’ll get them back to you tomorrow.”

“Sure. Why?”

“I want to try something. Ned? Hey, _Ned_! I need you.”

Harissa patted Sketch on his shoulder and headed for her Master’s room.

“Come,” answered her knock.

She found him meditating, sitting cross-legged on the floor, the palms of his hands lightly resting on his knees.

“You have something you want to ask me,” he said, not opening his eyes.

“Yes, Master.”

“Have a seat.”

Harissa obeyed, sitting across from him, folding her legs and placing her hands on her knees. “I want to know why the clone army is different from other armies. Was it built into them? Was it trained, and if so, by who? Couldn’t have been the Mandalorians, right? And did we agree to lead them so they _wouldn’t_ pillage?”

“Ah. You had a conversation with Head Rassid back in Reltu. And another with Head Berri here.”

Harissa stared at him. “How did you— the clones couldn’t have told you, there hasn’t been _time_!”

His eyes opened, piercing blue and mischievous. “It wasn’t a difficult guess. Rassid... has expressed his profound lack of confidence in us not just to you, but to me as well. He was likely your source on military misuse. And the fact that you believe our men are different suggests you spoke to someone who could convince you. Someone you felt had enough years of experience to be able to outweigh Rassid. The current Head of Kertu is barely in his twenties, which leaves the previous Head as a likely candidate. She has as much authority as Rassid, but more years of experience.”

“I didn’t think it through quite that far. Consciously anyway.”

“Your questions are good ones. The Kaminoan scientists did _not_ somehow program them against typical army behaviors. And you’re right. The mercs and bounty hunters training them don’t cover any of that. They simply teach them to fight, work together, and follow orders. Now that Master Ti is in charge, things have changed somewhat. She encourages improvised solutions to problems in the field instead of just shoving the reg book down their throats.”

“I thought the Three-Thirty-Seventh was deployed before her arrival.”

“As a battalion, yes, but we have lost many since deployment. They have been replaced by men from Kamino under Master Ti’s leadership.”

“So if it wasn’t built in, and it wasn’t taught, how did they escape from being normal? _Is_ it the Jedi?”

“I don’t want us taking more credit than we deserve,” Ima-Gun cautioned, “but the concept of an army was very disturbing to us. The suffering that didn’t come from the battles would come from the soldiers themselves. Those cruelties we felt to be unnecessary, and possibly, preventable. Convincing career military minds of that at the time, however, was impossible. They’d never seen it done. They would have _expected_ their men to destroy and terrorize wherever they went. As long as it was on the soldiers’ off-time and didn’t result in reprimands from authorities that could damage the commanding officer’s career, they would just write it off as regrettable but inevitable.

“Many of us felt the clones presented a clean slate. They were waiting to be taught, and they _wanted_ to be taught. If the career warriors would encourage corruption through expecting it, we couldn’t just stand by and watch.”

“So you stepped in. But you didn’t want refuse the knowledge and experience the career military minds offered. That would be sheer arrogance. That’s why our admirals aren’t clones, and aren’t Jedi.”

“Correct. They are teamed up with Jedi, and Jedi make the final decisions. However, if something happens, whether that be death or wounding or something unforeseen that might incapacitate Force-sensitives, there is an experienced authority option left.”

“So they don’t pillage, because you prepared them to _not_. You called them to a higher standing. You believed in them, and they are rising to the occasion.”

“The credit lies with _them_ , Harissa. We can do our best to teach, but it is never the teacher who determines whether the student accepts the lessons or not. That is up to the student, and the student alone.”

“Have we ever had clones who’ve gone bad?”

“Yes. The instances are few and far between, and whenever it happens, it creates shockwaves of anger and a deep feeling of betrayal in their brothers. One of their own turned on them. When we agreed to become Generals, we hoped to forestall the pillaging part of war. We couldn’t prevent all the horrors of war, but if we could keep this _one_ form of horror out of the picture? We had to try.”

“It’s been working.” Harissa shook her head in amazement. “ _Really_ working. But that’s only one reason we agreed to it, isn’t it? Yes, to protect the civilians from the soldiers. But also to protect the clones from the politicians. The people who don’t see that they have rights and _lives_.”

“Yes.”

“Have we been succeeding?”

“We have provided a buffer. On Kamino, they used to kill the so-called rejects. The first thing Shaak Ti did when she arrived was to put a stop to that. Have we succeeded in convincing the politicians to grant these men their freedom? No. And until that happens, we’re not going to leave them.”

“And here I thought we agreed to this because the Senate asked.”

Ima-Gun chuckled. “No. Jedi aren’t warriors, Harissa. It would take more than the Senate requesting quick and cheep labor to bring us to the front lines. They may have veto power for freedom’s sake, but we still have autonomy. We can refuse any request we feel to be wrong.”

“Is our fighting a war right?”

“Ah, Padawan. That is a question not easily answered. No. It’s not right. Is staying out of it and trying to clean up the destroyed lives in its wake closer to right? No. That’s allowing people to suffer and die because we’re not willing to dirty our morally pure hands. Is this the most effective way we can find to protect the innocent at this time? Yes. Will that situation change without warning any day now, or in a few years? Possibly. Even probably. Must we be ready to make the change when it presents itself? Yes.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“You’re welcome, Padawan.”

Harissa returned to her room, her mind busy turning over what Ima-Gun had said.

It took her a long time fall asleep.

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

Another morning without an alarm waking her up.

Harissa’s breakfast was interrupted by Sketch and Ned. Looking up, she tried to process what her eyes were seeing.

_So_ this _is what he meant about needing Ned._

Sketch had parted Ned’s hair down the middle from front to back, letting the long length fall free by the left side of his face.

“Now the idea is that the right side would be shaved,” Sketch said, placing a drawing in front of Harissa. “No fuzz. Like you said. Just skin.”

On Ned, the right half of his hair was worked into tiny twists and pulled back to simulate the effect Sketch was aiming for.

“Of course your Padawan braid would still be there.” Sketch waved the braid he’d made behind Ned’s right ear at Harissa. “And here.” Pushing on Ned’s shoulder so his brother would turn, Sketch proudly presented his crowning idea. “I took the hair that would edge the shaved area, braided it back. Once you’ve collected more beads, you won’t be able to see the braid, since I’ve turned it so the beads are on top. It will just be a row of beads on your head.”

Gaze switching back and forth from the drawing to the living example, Harissa felt excitement stir in her heart.

“I like it.” Her eyes sparkled as she looked up into Sketch’s waiting face. “I really do.”

Sketch broke into a grin. “How about that. Ned. You can take that out now. Sit.”

While Ned unbraided the mock padawan-symbol, Sketch worked the beads back out. “Have you decided if we get to paint your fighter or not?”

“Was I supposed to be considering it?” Harissa asked, amused.

Sketch shrugged. “It doesn’t match, the way it is.”

“Sure. Let’s paint the fighter.”

“It’s a good thing you said that, since Skid’s already scrounged up paint and is collecting some of the boys to help.”

Harissa shook her head as she laughed. She tucked the beads into an empty pouch on her belt, and went to meet the clones out gathering by her fighter.

“Anything in particular?” Sketch asked.

Harissa shook her head. “Nope. This is going to be a clone project. I decide how I look; you can decide how to make my fighter look. You did a pretty good job with the rest of the ships.”

The clones were fully involved in the decoration process when Left ran up to them, waving something small and white. “It’s here! Ced! It’s here!”

Ced’s face drained of just about all color, and he stood frozen.

And then Kenn was at his side, chattering happily and shaking his brother out of his terror-induced paralysis.

_When did Kenn get here?_

Everyone was talking at once, nobody listening to anyone else.

And then the object of discussion was presented to Ced.

He stared at it for a moment, and then shook his head. “I can’t do it.”

“You’ve _got_ to,” Kenn pleaded. “How else are you going to know what it says?”

“What if it’s bad?”

Kenn stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “Bad? Why would it be bad? How could she resist a face like ours?”

That set the clones to laughing.

Ced shook his head. “No. The Commander. Have the Commander read it. Out loud.”

“Are you sure?” Harissa asked, very far from sure _herself_.

“ _Yes_.”

Next thing she knew, the letter was open and in her hands.

Utter silence fell over the gathered men.

_Please be kind to him,_ please _Jesp._

“My Dear Ced—”

“Good sign,” Kenn whispered. “ _Good_ sign.”

“Xertu seems lonely with you and your brothers gone. I want you back, but that would mean the fighting would be near us again, and I don’t want that.

“Stay safe, please. I’m very much looking forward to you coming back for me once this is all over. You’re always on my mind. I eagerly await your next letter.

“Warm regards, Jesp.”

Cheers and clapping met the conclusion.

“Wait, wait!” Harissa held up a flat disk. “There’s this too.”

Ced took it from her, triggering the holo.

Harissa recognized the young woman from Sketch’s drawings.

Sure enough, the smile Ced talked about was present.

Ced handled the holo like it might shatter into a thousand pieces.

“She sent you a picture. She sent you a _picture_ ,” Kenn almost squealed. “Told you. I _told_ you!” He snatched the letter from Harissa and placed it in Ced’s hands. “Now. Go read it a bunch of times. _memorize_ it.”

“Memorize it?”

“Trust me. When you recite it back to her years from now, she’ll fall in love with you _all over again_. Just go do it!”

“Alone?”

“Oh, fine. I’ll come with you.”

The two left, Ced still in a bit of a daze, Kenn yammering on without a pause.

Those remaining fell back to work.

“Think I’ll ever find someone?” Brains was lying on his back underneath the fighter, filling in the detail outlines Sketch had provided.

“You’re too smart _not_ to end up with one,” Skid assured him. “You’re better with math than anybody I’ve ever met.”

“Think that’ll be a selling point?”

Skid scoffed. “If it _isn’t_ , it _should_ be.”

“There’s one thing you can all sit back and relax about,” Threetu announced, working on the top of the left wing. “ _I_ will never have a problem in the romantic department. After all, I only have to convince them I’m better than the rest of _you_.”

That earned him a wave of good-natured invective.

By the time they finished up, Harissa almost couldn’t recognize her fighter, let alone Neight.

They certainly matched her Master’s and R12. No doubts there.

“Men.”

Turning, Harissa and the clones discovered Captain Keeli. His grim expression sent jitters of worry through Harissa’s gut.

“Vacation’s over. Word’s just come in the clankers have their new Tactical droid.”

“They can sneak past us?” Harissa demanded. “We have such a good net!”

Keeli gave her a cool glance. “Apparently. The General wants us packed up and moved out in an hour.”

The eagerness she sensed in Skid and his squad wavered.

“How far away are we going?” Harissa asked.

There was more she wanted to do here. She wanted to get to know Berri Li. Find out why Teza Li disliked them so much. Spend more time with Head Berri.

Keeli, if he noticed her reticence, showed no signs of sympathy. “As far as it takes. If we can pull it off and drive the Seppies out of their emplacements, we’ll camp in the foothills, then keep going. We’re not going to have a solid base for a while most likely. Now men. Get moving.”

The clones scattered like chaff in a wind.

“Our tactical position hasn’t gotten any better, has it?”

Keeli leveled her with a stern glance. “It’s going to get a hell of a lot worse if they get to make the first move. Our numbers are back up again. We have a better chance now than we did two days ago, and this is the best chance we’re going to _get_.” He turned on his heel and walked away from her without a backward glance.

Harissa tapped her comlink. “Master? Master? What am I supposed to do?”

“Harissa. Pack your things into your fighter. Tell Neight to keep it ready to take up at moment’s notice.”

Harissa sped for the barracks. “Will we be flying cover?”

“No. Remember the artillery? We have to take that out first, and it’s protected by a shield.”

“Can we sneak up?”

“They’re in the middle of a field, on a hill. Maximum exposure. It’s why we haven’t challenged them before.”

Harissa felt her heart sink. “We’re going to walk up to them? Won’t they just mow us down?”

“I’ve had Tinker working on our portable shield generator, trying to get it back in working condition.”

“We _have_ one?”

“It’s broken. I’m on my way to see if it’s ready enough.”

Harissa dashed into her room. She pulled her drawing from the wall, folded it, and tucked it into the pouch containing her beads. After a second’s hesitation, she included the brown marking pen as well. Snatching up her folded spare tunic and leggings, she darted back down the hallways.

Clones were everywhere, in full armor, and walls were being taken down, tables collapsed, methodical insanity reigning.

Back outside, she tucked her spare clothes behind the seat of her fighter. “Neight, keep it warm and ready,” she directed.

He whistled an affirmative, and the fighter’s engines rumbled to life.

“Tell Artwelve too, please,” Harissa called as she dashed off again. “Master? I’m all ready to go. Can I run down to the farm to say goodbye? I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

“Make it quick.”

Oh, thank the Force. She’d expected him to say no.

“And you’ll have to convey Skid and the boys’ farewells too. We can’t spare them.”

“I will. I promise.” Harissa ran as fast as her long legs would take her.

The house was dark, and no one responded to her pounding on the door. Stretching out to the Force, she searched for any sign of life within.

She couldn’t find one.

Running to the barn, she nearly crashed into Berri coming out its open doorway.

“We’re leaving,” Harissa panted out. “Skid and everybody couldn’t come. But I couldn’t just leave without saying goodbye.”

Berri pulled her into a hug. “You and they be careful. You hear me? And you tell them we won’t forget them.”

Tears burned Harissa’s eyes.

The hug was strange, but it didn’t feel... _uncomfortable_ , necessarily.

The Zabrak released her before Harissa could decide how to respond.

“I hope I get to see you and Wek again someday.”

“You will always be welcome here.” Berri stroked her cheek. “May the Force be with you.”

Harissa gave her a nod, and then she was running again.

The wind against her face dried the tears that escaped.

Breaking out of the forest, she discovered that the base was _gone_.

It hadn’t just been completely taken down, it had been returned to the Recovery, and all that remained were the men, making the last preparations. Bringing the AT-TEs online. Filling the gunships.

“Harissa.” Her Master called her over. “We’re taking an advance strike force. We’ll fly the gunships in as close as we can get, then jump out. Hopefully, most of the pilots will be able to retreat. We have to take down the shield before we bring up the tanks, or they’ll just be destroyed. Once the shield is down, we have to hold out until the others can reach us.”

“Across open fields with no cover.”

“They _will_ have cover. Tinker _will_ have that shield ready in time.”

“So we’re not taking it with us.” Harissa ran her hand over her hair. _We’re going to die._

“We can do this,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder and capturing her gaze with his eyes.

For a moment, everything else sank to a murmur around her as Harissa reached out to her master’s quiet assurance.

And then he was moving again, Harissa scrambling to follow.

Nearby, Keeli shouted orders to his men. Harissa positively identified a few helmets and many familiar Force signatures. If the angle wasn’t right, it would be impossible to tell them apart by sight. She would have to rely on the Force for that until she grew more accustomed to seeing them in their full armor.

_I learned to know them by their faces and hair._

In the chaos of battle, that wasn’t likely to help her.

Standing in the gunship, she tried to identify the men around her. Brains. That was the only entity in the Force that felt familiar.

_I don’t know them,_ she realized.

In the calm of the mess hall it had been easy to feel accomplished and that she was really close to meeting them all.

Now she began to realize she’d barely scratched the surface.

The gunship’s blast shields were closed, so Harissa couldn’t see out. At _all_. Dull red lit the interior, but just barely.

The clones were silent as they checked the seals on their armor one last time and prepped their blasters.

Her Master stood beside her, holding one of the handles above their heads.

_There’s probably a good reason._ Harissa reached up to grab one herself.

Several seconds later, she was very glad she had.

Explosions shivered through the air around them, jolting the gunship like a case of severe turbulence. Harissa sensed death and knew that one of the other gunships must have been hit.

She grit her teeth and held on.

“Almost to the drop point, boys,” came a voice over the intercom.

“How many are left?” Ima-Gun asked back.

“Just us, General.”

Harissa would have expected the voice to be grim, but instead it was cool and collected.

“Be sure to get yourself out of here in one piece, Target.”

“Of course, Sir,” came the cheery reply. “Ready to jump in three, two, one.”

The doors hissed open and the lights went green.

Harissa followed her Master out and into—

The hazy red of the ray shield covering the Separatist base touched the ground two meters away. Droids were stepping out of its cover, firing at them.

Harissa’s lightsaber deflected three shots before her brain even registered they were under attack.

Her Master was already moving.

Two clones were lying on the ground, but nobody stopped to check on them.

Near the end of the column, Harissa forced herself to catch up to Ima-Gun. _A lightsaber’s no good if you aren’t using it._

Droid after droid fell beneath the two blue blades.

_Focus. Focus._

Men were falling.

_Don’t think about it now. Stop the source. Complete the mission._

She didn’t know if the gunship— Target— had gotten away. She couldn’t afford to look back.

Pushing through the shield didn’t result in less enemy fire, but _more_.

They didn’t have to send droids _outside_ in order to reach them anymore.

Another man fell, and lay screaming on the ground.

Ima-Gun kept moving.

There was too much going on for Harissa to be able to really _see_ beyond what was happening right in front of her. If she lost track of her Master here, she was going to die.

Keeping his familiar presence and flashing blade to her left, she took out every droid and blaster bolt she could reach.

Her field of responsibility might be very, very small, but this time, she _had_ one.

_I can do this._

“General!”

“Tell me you have good news, Tinker!”

“The generator’s operational, but it won’t last long. If you can save the Seppie gen, maybe we can scavenge it for parts.”

“We’ll see,” was all Ima-Gun had time to growl back.

A snicker shook Harissa’s frame, even as she butchered three more droids.

In a race against time, with the incursion team almost gone, trapped in enemy territory until their friends could come up— and who knew how long it would take since their shield might give out halfway across the plain— and now they wanted them to disable the Seppie shield _without_ damaging the Seppie equipment.

She couldn’t keep back the laughter.

She shouldn’t be laughing, right? It was stupid, it was crazy, the situation wasn’t _funny_ —

Unless, of course, every moment becoming more desperate than the last suddenly equaled hilarious.

Which, according to her body, apparently it _did_.

With a snarl, she slammed her blade through another droid’s chest. _I am_ not _breaking down._ Not _this time._

“Zeroes! Turn this thing off, but don’t hurt it.”

_Wait, what?_

Harissa spared a glance over her shoulder, saw the shield generator. _We’re here?_

The thought a micro-second behind that one was, _There’s no cover._

They couldn’t retreat to find some, the droids would just turn the generator back _on_.

_Oh, Tinker!_

No wonder her Master had growled over the new limitation.

Somehow, in the insanity, Harissa’s mind still managed to throw meaningless information at her. _Zeroes and Yessir sit with Berri the Elder often._

“Got it!” Zeroes cried.

Accompanying the words, the red distortion of the light overhead pulled back to reveal the skies.

“Keeli. You’re up,” Ima-Gun barked into his comlink.

“We’re on our way!” Keeli’s voice came back. “Hold on, General.”

“We have to move!”

Harissa had no idea who’d said it. One of the clones.

“It’s planted. We can’t carry it and there’s no anti-grav.”

And... they hadn’t _brought_ any since they didn’t think they needed it. That whole don’t carry extra weight thing.

“I’ll use the Force,” Harissa offered. “Just find us cover!”

Her Master spared her a nod and widened his blade’s sweep of defense.

Harissa extinguished her saber but kept the hilt in her hand as she sank herself into the Force.

She had to trust her Master completely. There was no way she could manage this _and_ defend herself at the same time.

There wasn’t time to think about it.

The generator rose into the air.

“This way, Commander!”

A hand on her elbow guided her backwards and around.

The chaos made thinking difficult, and the wild spasms of death coming from the main part of the 337th was desperately hard to focus through.

“You can set it down now, Commander.” The voice was calm, right in her ear. Harissa instinctively reached out to its owner, discovered he was as calm as he sounded.

Beautiful, stable in this bewildering confusion.

Lowering the generator to the ground, making sure it set gently, Harissa resurfaced. They were hunkered down in the shadow of something. She didn’t have time to determine what.

“Harissa!” her Master barked.

She sprang forward to join him where he stood between the clones and the withering barrage.

Deflect, deflect, deflect—

At first it was almost impossible to keep up with them all.

And then... she started finding a rhythm.

It allowed her to take in a few other pieces of information instead of just _bolt_ , _bolt_ , _bolt_ , _bolt_ , _bolt_.

The calm and lethal aim of that one mind she’d touched a lifetime ago.

Or was it seconds?

Zeroes’ urgency, the desperate fury as he killed those coming to kill him.

The ever-running mind of Brains as he calculated the odds of their survival again and again against every minuscule change in the situation, and his annoyance at the results.

They had cover preventing the droids from aiming from behind them or directly above.

At least there was that.

Who knew how long it would _last_.

“ _General_! They’ve turned the anti-air artillery against us. The shield has failed. We _need that gun down_!”

Harissa listened to Keeli’s update in utter amazement.

This was going bad in every way _possible_.

“Ask Dao; we’re pinned down,” Ima-Gun sent back.

“He _can’t_. He’s got three cruisers he’s dealing with!”

Brains interrupted. “General, we will not reach those guns. You might. The Commander... maybe. But to destroy them you’d have to divide your focus. The odds are too long even for you. You _won’t_ succeed with the guns, let alone survive.”

“ _Admiral Dao._ ”

It seemed an eternity before the man responded.

“Yes, General?”

“We _need_ someone to take out the big gun. None of us can move; and the gunships wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“General, it’s all we can do to—”

“Admiral. We’re at the breaking point.”

_How can he sound so calm about it?_

Her muscles were tiring, her knees threatening to shake. _Don’t you dare_ , she inwardly snarled.

There was no response.

“Admiral?” Ima-Gun’s tone rose just a little. “Can you hear me? Admiral?”

Growling, he took out another dozen bolts.

Not quite so overwhelmed anymore, Harissa began trying to angle the blasts she deflected back to their origin points.

A droid fell.

Another.

Oh, that _changed_ things. A _lot_.

She could sense the calm one’s approval. Brains’ gloom that it wouldn’t be enough. Zeroes not even noticing.

And the three others—

No. No.

One was severely injured.

Dying.

“Focus,” her Master reminded, his voice strained.

It didn’t matter how many droids they killed, more kept forward.

“General, we’re seeing commando droids out here!” Keeli’s voice came through the comm, desperate now. “We need that gun down!”

“ _Admiral_ ,” Ima-Gun called. “Harissa. We’re going to have to go out there.”

“But—”

“The clones will stay here, hold out as long as they can. We’ll be back if possible.”

“ _But_ —” Harissa’s ears strained as a new sound touched them.

A different rumble that hadn’t been there before.

And then it became a scream.

The clones behind her let loose a roar of triumph, and Harissa suddenly realized she was contributing to it.

_Dao!_

He’d come through. He’d _come through_.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

“Heard you could use some assistance,” A clone voice called down cheerfully. “And tell the boys they owe me one.”

“A lot more than one if you can take out that gun, Cards,” Ima-Gun promised, and Harissa could sense hope reawakening inside him. Cautious. Very cautious, but just a little of the tightness in his Force signature eased.

She felt the wounded clone behind her slip away, a breath of darkness chilling the back of her neck.

Fierce laser fire scorched the masses hemming them in as five clone fighters strafed low.

“Let’s show these whiny shinies how it’s done.” Cards sounded smug and pleased.

The four voices that responded to him sounded equally confident.

But the droids weren’t being led by B1s anymore.

Two of the fighters died. One exploded in midair, another plummeted into the droid headquarters, the explosion nearly destroying Harissa’s ears.

The remaining three tried again and again to reach the gun.

Again and again were driven off.

Droids had filled in over the carnage of their brethren, keeping the Jedi and their remaining companions fully occupied.

_Come on, come on, come on—_

Harissa’s elation long gone, she heard the increasingly grim reports from Cards, from Keeli, from Dao—

And now droid reinforcements were landing.

_We’re going to die. We’re all going to die._

The protective screen of the lightsabers wasn’t quite good enough.

One of the clones, one of the ones she hadn’t learned the name of yet, fell backwards.

His death struck at Harissa like a blow one couldn’t defend against. It broke her rhythm. Suddenly she was back to just barely deflecting the bolts away from her in time.

“Craze. _Craze_. Fall back into formation,” Cards snapped over the open comm. _“Craze.”_

“You hear ’em,” his brother called back. “The Three-Thirty-Seventh is getting wiped out.”

“ _Get back here_.”

“Yeah, _not_. Autodirectional coordinates set—”

“ _Craze_ —”

“It’s been fun. And I never liked the idea of retirement.”

Harissa was struggling to match the multitudes of blaster bolts headed their way, but still felt Cards’ desperation and Craze’s morbidly happy determination.

Her mind was too split, the focus needed in too many places for her to try to understand what was going on.

Comprehension only came when an explosion that outshone the sun turned the world white.

Craze was gone.

And so was the anti-air artillery.

“Kark,” spat Cards’ only remaining pilot.

And without a missed beat, the two moved in closer than they’d been able to get while the gun remained, and tore the base to shreds, melting droids with a cold fury of vengeance that rocked Harissa to her boots.

She could sense the grief in the four men who remained behind her.

All except for the calm one. He just kept firing, like everything that happened now didn’t matter until later.

Shapes moved forward out of the smoke. Fast. _So_ fast.

“Commandos, incoming,” Calm One advised.

“ _Harissa_.” She could sense her Master’s concern.

The clones stopped firing at the other droids and focused _entirely_ on the commandos, their blasters screaming as fast as possible.

Harissa could sense the grim factor of their signatures increasing by leaps and bounds.

Her Master sprang from his place and ran to meet them.

Sure she was utterly crazy, Harissa followed him.

She discovered these were faster. More agile.

And far, far more brutal.

They also had machetes.

_What the_ Kessel _?_

She fought with everything she had in her. Droid after droid after droid—

Standing over another dismembered commando, she spun around, looking for more.

“Harissa. Back to the others.”

She followed her Master’s voice, deflecting the interminable blasterfire.

She arrived to find three still alive.

Brains. Zeroes. The calm one.

Cards and his brother were out there somewhere. She could sense them. Still furious at their loss, still butchering droids as they had opportunity. Since she couldn’t see them, maybe they were providing cover for the advancing ground troops.

And then white streaks dashed past them on either side.

It took her several seconds to realize that Keeli had arrived.

“Come. We need to get the tactical droid.”

Harissa followed her Master, dimly aware of the three clones around her.

The newly-arrived men were slaughtering the droids with vicious glee.

They’d been tested on those open fields. Harissa had felt it.

Still, it was difficult to sense these men, men she knew, taking such pleasure in destroying their enemies.

It was so... _wrong_. Revenge was of the dark side.

And the fact that they couldn’t touch the Force didn’t mean it didn’t respond.

The darkness was so thick it was difficult to breathe.

She followed hard after her Master and focused on his light.

He killed, but it was without the personal rage.

And... the calm one, to her right. He wasn’t vengeful either.

They cut their way through the halls until they reached the control room.

A B1 tried to walk out the door, studiously casual, as though it thought they might not _notice_ it.

Zeroes disarmed it.

“Where is your general?” Ima-Gun demanded.

“Ha!” it crowed. “You’re too _late_. He’s flown away in a ship. You worthless Republic dogs will just have to try again.”

Zeroes’ Force signature practically begged as he turned his head to look over at his General.

Ima-Gun gave him a nod.

The droid shrieked in terror as Zeroes put bolts in its feet, and then hollowed out its chest.

“General Di. Admiral Dao here. Not all of the landing craft headed your way, some are continuing up the mountains. You might be able to see them.”

Rushing to the door, they looked out and up.

“We see them,” Ima-Gun returned. “The tactical droid probably went to join them. How are things up there?”

“The Recovery has taken severe damage. We won’t be able to repair her here. I’m going to have to take her back to Coruscant.”

Panic exploded in Harissa’s heart.

_We would have been_ dead _without him. And now he’s_ leaving _?_

“I see.” Ima-Gun’s voice sounded heavy. “How many fighters can you spare?”

“I’ll send those that aren’t damaged and whose pilots are fit. We’ll be back as soon as we can, but she’s burning, General.”

“I understand. Thank you for the help you sent and are sending.”

“Hold out, General. Help will come.”

The comms off, Harissa heard her Master murmur, “Yes, but soon enough?”

Shaking away the gloom, he turned to his men. “We need any hint of what their plans are that we can find. I don’t care if you have to interrogate every deactivated droid in this base, but _find_ me something.”

Brains and Zeroes took their helmets off, and shoved a B1 corpse off the center holotable.

“Everything’s been wiped from here,” Brains announced after a moment’s inspection. “Droid brains it is. Find me some.”

Harissa watched, unsure whether to be impressed or horrified as the calm one and Zeroes ripped heads off the droids in the room and down the hall, bringing them to Brains.

With the precision of some evil doctor, he stripped their last memories from them, searching for anything useful.

“You may want to sit, Harissa. This may take some time.”

Harissa looked up into Ima-Gun’s face. He looked concerned.

_Concerned for_ me _? Whatever for? I survived, didn’t I? And I didn’t freeze up or cry this time._

“Padawan. Sit.”

Harissa’s legs just about dropped her to the floor as she tried to obey.

Yeah. They were shaking now.

_All_ of her was shaking.

_Why? We’re out of danger now. And we won._

He crouched beside her, placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“What’s wrong with me?” she whispered, confused by the mess of emotions combined with the utter _lack_ of feeling she was experiencing. Or was the mess what she _should_ be experiencing? Because she sure didn’t feel—

“Easy,” he murmured. “Breathe.”

She’d actually done her part this time. She’d acquitted herself well.

_I overcame my fear._

Did it count if half the time she’d been just too _busy_ to feel afraid? Too focused on too many things at once to feel anything at _all_?

“You did well, Padawan.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m losing something?” She looked up into his eyes, knowing her own revealed her vulnerability. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

“It’s war, Harissa. It isn’t right.”

“We won... but...” She shook her head. “It doesn’t _feel_ like we won.”

“It rarely does.”

 

* * *

 

Harissa stood in a gunship, hurtling through the night, not entirely sure how she’d gotten there.

It was late. Very late. She wanted to sleep; was afraid she might drift off even standing up in this loud troop hold.

Without eyes in orbit, and without having been able to determine where in blazes the droids thought they were heading, and with no obvious _place_ for them to _go_ , they had to keep up or they might lose them. All they had was basic trajectory, given by Dao and confirmed by one battle droid’s robolobotomy.

The numbness of fighting for one’s life had given way to the numbness of stillness. Harissa felt... almost nothing. Tired. Done.

A little bit sick.

Why were the Seppies even here? The locals were so careful to not have anything to appeal to them. Why not move a planet over, where there was a capital that could be taken and held? Ports for commerce? Something, _anything_?

The ship shook against the pounding rain.

At least this latest battle hadn’t included mud.

The next would.

“General, we’re going to have to put down. It’s too rough out there.”

Harissa heard her Master’s response; wasn’t sure she cared.

Misery up here, or misery down there? What difference did it really make?

They would sit in the mud, lick their wounds, get up early tomorrow to hunt the droid army again.

Why couldn’t they have been assigned to one of the quickly-moving fronts of the war? Places where time spent on a planet would be a day or a week; then moving as the line snaked in and out and around.

This planet was basically in siege, and had been since the start.

She wasn’t even really sure why. Yes, yes, traderoutes. Tibanna substitutes. Location and resources. She’d _heard_ the explanation. Hearing it wasn’t _feeling_ it.

She followed the troops as they abandoned the gunships and took shelter in a labyrinth of caves. She sat on the cold stone, wet and hungry, and just stared at the bustle around her. She ate because it seemed like the next thing to do, but after that, she just sat in silence.

How could they keep doing it? Day after day after day?

She’d thought the boredom was a bad thing.

Now she regretted her inner complaining.

There was something worse about the emptiness and dreariness.

Sketch approached her. It took her a moment to realize it was him, since his hair lay back flat against his head. He had what looked like a razor in one hand. “Commander. Do you have your beads?”

“I haven’t lost them.”

“Threetu’s wanting to watch, so we’ll need to go over to the med area—”

“Threetu’s hurt?” Fear seared through the numbness, a sharp jolt of life.

Not that she was wanting _that_ sort of life.

“Not badly—”

“Where is he? Take me there!” Harissa scrambled to her feet, no longer tired.

“He wants to watch when we cut your hair. So if you could get the beads first—”

She stared at him like he’d gone mad. “Threetu’s hurt and you want to talk about beads?”

He gave her a patient look. “No. Threetu’s hurt and _he_ wants you to talk about beads.”

Well... _that_ made a difference.

She fished in her pocket and drew them out, then followed Sketch through the rows of wounded.

Most were quiet, wrapped in the gentle arms of painkiller-induced stupor or sleep. For others, the drugs didn’t seem to be working too well.

Harissa felt nothing as she passed them. She’d experienced too much today. It felt like the nerves of her soul had been overloaded, and were no longer responding to touch.

It felt wrong.

_How can I suddenly not care?_

The question scared her. More feeling against the sea of blank mud.

“Who did we lose?” Harissa asked Sketch as they walked, hoping to rid herself of the horrible, polluting sludge in her veins.

She recognized seven of the names he gave her. They belonged to the forty or so she’d memorized the other day. Many more didn’t.

_I’ll never know them._

Why didn’t the thought bring sadness?

It should bring sadness.

She wasn’t trying to _block_ grief or pain from coming, and she wasn’t trying to lock them up somewhere. Her emotional stream was uncluttered, open. Why was it full of putrefying gunk?

“And Left.”

Oh. She’d _known_ Left.

Why, then, did she just feel... empty?

They found Threetu being tended, and Harissa’s fear sent another strong, vibrant jolt through the jelly in her soul.

He looked up at her, a bright smile on his face. “Don’t worry, Mom. Just a scratch.”

“ _Really_?” she demanded, moving to crouch beside him.

“Yes,” Bandage assured her, putting the finishing touches to a wrap around Threetu’s thigh. “No big deal. Just painful.”

Threetu threw him a mock-resentful look. “You’re not supposed to tell her that.”

Harissa reached out in the Force, scanning the clone’s body, but she couldn’t find anything terribly wrong. Some pain, being swiftly covered over by the injection...

“He’s fine,” Bandage repeated firmly.

Harissa looked up to find him staring her in the face. “Alright.”

Bandage moved on to the next patient needing him.

“Sit,” Sketch ordered, kneeling beside her.

“Now?” Harissa eyed the razor, though she obeyed. “Really? It’s not been a good day.”

“We survived,” Threetu argued.

“But I don’t _feel_ anything.” Harissa rubbed her sleeve over her forehead. “Men died, and are still dying— I can sense them all around me in here— but I can’t feel anything. I felt fear when Sketch said you were hurt, but that’s gone now, and I just don’t _care_ about anything. What’s the point of cutting my hair when I feel like this? Wasn’t that supposed to be an expression of me? Me, at the moment, could sit and stare at a wall for an hour, just thinking about how awful everything is, and feeling... I don’t know. Numb isn’t right, because it’s... _miserable_ —”

Threetu gave her a nod. “That happens. Usually when your body is tired and your brain has had to process a lot.”

“Sorry, guys. I just don’t feel like... _art_ right now. We’re on march. Bad stuff is happening. We’re alone, with backup way too far away, and now there’s mud again.”

Sketch didn’t move away. “Art is even more important _because_ of all that.”

Harissa threw him a disbelieving glance. Movement out of the corner of her eye brought her head around the other way. She found Threetu’s squad.

“The more stifled you feel, the more important it is to express,” Singe offered.

“Are you the regiment’s psychologist or something?” Harissa hated the annoyance in her tone. He was just trying to help.

But she didn’t want to do _anything_.

“Come on, Mom,” Threetu pleaded. “I’m stuck here in bed and bored. _Very bored,_ and I had my heart _set_ on—”

Harissa’s gaze snapped back to his face. _I think he picked up some things from Wek._

But the pleading eyes, absurd though they might have been, managed to drag a half-smile to her face.

And really, what would she be doing otherwise?

“Alright. Fine.”

Threetu’s face lit up with a self-congratulatory grin. Harissa settled herself.

The squad moved in around their brother, quiet for the most part.

_They’re as done as I am_ , she realized.

Sketch pulled her hair from its tie and combed it out. The insanity of today had put plenty of snarls in it. Harissa expected the pain to cut through the grayness of her inner state, but no, it just hurt.

The soft touch of the razor against her head didn’t spark anything either. No... no. That wasn’t completely accurate.

She could detect a little wisp of apprehension.

The tiniest flare of excitement.

Sketch worked in silence, and she could sense his intense focus.

Closing her eyes, Harissa just tried to _feel_.

Her Master had said that _not_ feeling would hurt her. She believed it. This decay within felt like death.

_But I’m not ignoring or blocking anything. I_ want  _to feel._

So why couldn’t she? Why was everything so muted?

Sketch started working with the beads.

Harissa could sense though she couldn’t see his precision. The exactness of his work.

It was Skid who produced a mirror when Sketch pronounced her finished.

Peering into it, Harissa saw the drawing staring back at her, only this time in full color.

She felt a subtle tingle.

She knew this was what she had decided she wanted, and knew that if they’d done this yesterday, she would have been feeling pleased. And probably a few other emotions, given the newness of the experience.

She gave a smile to indicate her satisfaction.

There was no need to drag her friends down with her. She might not be thrilled at the moment, but if her heart hadn’t congealed she would have been. It wasn’t their fault she wasn’t feeling anything positive at the moment.

“Perfect,” she offered, reaching up to touch the beads. “Thanks.”

Sketch gave her a satisfied nod and left, off to do Force knew what next.

The squad seemed rather content bundled around Threetu, and Harissa needed help. So with a hasty farewell, she sought out her Master.

He’d taken off his belt and pulled the boots from his feet. Wrapping his cloak tightly around himself to ward off the cold of the stone floor, he was about to lie down when he caught sight of his Padawan.

His eyes lit with a smile as he took in her new look. “How does it feel?”

“Different.” Harissa sighed. “But I feel so apathetic. It’s been that way ever since the battle ended. What’s wrong with me? Everything is just... _mud_... in my head.”

His gaze softened and Harissa could hear the compassion in his voice. “War can do that. Suck the life out of you without a wound on you.”

“What do I do about it? It’s awful.”

“This is an experience too, my Padawan. Acknowledge it. Feel it. And when it finally is swept away by something else, let it go. It’s a different kind of pain.”

“It doesn’t want to leave. It’s worse than the fear.” Harissa pulled her outer robe close and sat down.

Ima-Gun followed suit. “It’s okay to feel this, Harissa, as long as you don’t let it manipulate you. If you act or don’t act because of the numbness, it’s controlling you. As Jedi, our job is to master ourselves, our choices, instead of submitting blindly to impulse or the lack thereof.”

“Mastery of self is the only mastery that matters,” Harissa quoted back. “But I don’t _care,_ Master. Nothing seems important.”

“That’s the difference between a Jedi and the rest of the galaxy, my Padawan. We choose to put others’ needs before our own whether we feel like it at the time or not. We don’t help out of convenience and then stand back when we’re disinclined. Feel and accept the disinterest, but retain control over your actions and body, no matter how deeply the ‘mud’ pervades.”

“It’s hard, Master.”

In the Force, she could feel his contact, the silent, gentle encouragement. “I know you can, Harissa. No matter where you go, you’re a Jedi.”

Harissa touched the beads on her head. _We’re out here for you. For all of you._

She looked around at the dozens of clones within her immediate range of sight. _And we’re out here for you too._

Turning her gaze back to her Master, she thought of the Jedi spread across the galaxy. _How many of them are just as miserable as I am right this minute?_

Her soul reached out to them. _We’re here for you too._

The thoughts stirred the sludge a little. Not anywhere near enough, but it gave her some hope. _Maybe it will go away. Maybe I just have to endure it until something else comes along_.

Wasn’t that what she’d been doing with the fear and the grief?

_I’ve been succeeding with both. Surely I can take nothingness too._

Where had this confidence come from? It sure hadn’t been there two weeks ago.

“Try to get some sleep,” her Master said, lying down and closing his eyes.

Watching his face as she curled up a meter away, Harissa directed her breathing to be even. Deep.

_It’s you_ , she thought. _You’re why I’m confident I can survive the sludge._

Harissa closed her eyes and tried to still her mind. In the Force, she reached out to her Master’s Force signature. She found the calm stillness of his mind and soul.

Listening to its gentle hum, she found herself relaxing.

The dulled, cut off feeling wasn’t fun.

But she didn’t enjoy the fear or the grief either.

_It’s alright_ , she murmured to herself. _It’s alright._

It only took moments before she slipped away into sleep.

 


	17. Chapter 17

 

It was still too stormy for the gunships in the morning, so they left them and a contingent of clones behind to catch up when they could. On foot, the wounded in AT-TEs, they set out through the mud, up merciless slopes.

Harissa’s cloak did little to shield her from the rain and buffeting wind.

The clones entertained themselves with singing and talking, and Harissa soon joined in. That lasted until the climbs became too steep, turning conversation into unnecessary effort.

How far would they have to travel like this?

Harissa set her jaw, bent her head, and kept moving.

Time inched along, about as slowly as the convoy. Harissa fell back to where Skid and his squad trudged along, hoping that the silent companionship would help ward off the misery of cold, wet clothes chaffing her skin raw, and the squish of wet socks in her boots.

It _did_ help.

The cliffs would be beautiful, if the sky wasn’t so overcast, turning them into a gray wasteland. She had no doubt the stone would sparkle in the sunlight, if the sun would only put in an _appearance_ —

She saw Threetu slip ahead of her. Felt his sudden panic as he went over the edge. Heard his brothers scream his name, saw them lunge for him.

Saw the hundreds of meters of emptiness below him.

Time shut down completely, one frozen heartbeat at a time.

_No_.

She seized the clone in the Force, refusing to let him go. He hung there, legs kicking, shrieking. Once she knew he was no longer falling, she realized her hands were stretched out in front of her, fingers curved into rigid claws.

_Draw him up. Draw him back. Draw him over_.

Sinking herself deeper into the Force, she lost track of her hands again. Water dripped off her nose as her foot skidded on the slippery stone.

A hand grabbed her elbow, keeping her upright.

Threetu had stopped flailing, was quiet, and very, very still, as though afraid he might twist out of her grip.

A little more.

Harissa set him down and drew her first breath since his initial scream. Her lungs burned and her mind ached. She found Skid latched on to her arm, feet braced to keep both of them on their feet.

Cheers broke out, and Harissa glanced around. All forward movement had stopped, and the clones close enough to have seen why were emitting tidal waves of relief in the Force.

Mimic helped Threetu to his feet. As soon as he stood firm, Threetu yanked his helmet off. Face pale, eyes large, hands trembling, his gaze found Harissa.

“You okay?” she asked, swiping rain off her forehead to forestall it falling in her eyes.

He gave her a shaken nod. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Always.”

“What’s the holdup?” Keeli barked, coming down the line towards them. “Got to keep moving—”

“Yes sir. We were just finished here,” Blinder announced.

Keeli frowned at them all, turned on his heel, and headed forward again. “Keep up.”

And so their feet kept moving. A bit more carefully this time, but on and on all the same.

_I saved his life_ , Harissa realized.

It cut through the sludge of her mind that had plagued her off and on all day. Drove it out, like a flash flood through her spirit’s stream.

She hadn’t frozen up and been useless, like her first battle. And she hadn’t just been useful, like the rest of her time here.

She’d made a difference.

_The_ difference.

Oh, Threetu’s life was worth years of trudging through pouring rain.

That carried her through the mud, scraped hands, bruised knees, and a twisted ankle. It carried her through a soggy night, and a miserable and early awakening.

And then they _found_ them.

As Harissa lit her lightsaber and ran forward, clones to either side and behind her, she realized that she was relieved. The march had been terrible.

At least now they were doing what they were here to do.

The clones had been right.

Again.

Blue light slammed through droid after droid as she matched her Master stride for stride.

White armor covered in mud, the clones moved through the periphery of her vision, comforting shapes in the murk of noontime clouds.

Red. Blue. The occasional green.

It was going _well_.

They’d caught the droid army by surprise.

She and her brothers were _trouncing_ them.

The thought made her foot falter. _No. No._ Skid’s _brothers._

She re-found her rhythm. When shouts alerted her to commando droids, she was ready for Ima-Gun’s sudden race forward.

At his side, she charged, not pausing to get rid of the battle droids in her way. She simply pushed through them, leaving destroyed or severely damaged enemies in her wake.

Her blood quickened as she came face-to-face with a commando droid. Fear surged through her veins.

She allowed it. Struck the droid’s head through it. Embraced it and slaughtered the next two commandos to come for her.

And then she was coming for _them_.

Death in the Force clawed at her soul.

Pain.

She allowed that too.

Embraced it too.

Killed more droids.

She could sense her Master’s focus. She followed him as he charged the Separatist tanks that were being hastily brought around to deal with the assault.

It took her a few moments to realize that she was fighting side-by-side with Keeli.

The calm clone from the last battle fought next to his Captain.

She could feel how well they worked together. The anticipation of one another. The way their styles complimented each other.

Using what she felt in the Force, she worked her own efforts into a third part of the tapestry.

Instead of taking any droid that had the misfortune to get in her way, she only took the ones the two clones _weren’t_ targeting.

After a few minutes, Keeli could no longer deny the new trend. She could sense the moment of acceptance.

What was better was the moment in which he decided to compliment _her_ as well.

Widening her focus, Harissa realized her Master was elsewhere.

And...

That was alright.

Quite alright.

It would be impossible for her to be alone when surrounded by clones.

The moment when the droids realized they couldn’t win offered a jolt of elation.

They were going to win... and they were winning _fast_.

The battle turned into a thrashing, and they forced the droids to abandon large portions of their supplies, tanks, and even a few ships.

Harissa didn’t just sense the clones’ desire to follow the clankers on down the mountain and harry them until the daylight gave out— she had that desire too. It was fierce. Single-minded.

Her silent snarl echoed the yelps of dismay when Ima-Gun gave the order to stop.

It wasn’t easy to watch the last of the droids disappear, knowing they could have killed them. Easily. So easily—

Harissa considered her frustrated discontent.

_Another feeling._

_It’s okay to feel frustrated. Just don’t let it... what? Blot out the big picture?_

What _was_ the big picture?

She turned to look around. Keeli was giving directions for securing the field, the enemy base and supplies, and tanks.

_We could push until we lose the upper hand. Until they regroup. We’d be... tired from pursuing them for so long. We’d be unfed. Wounded. And a long way from a defensible place._

If they stopped here, they had defenses already built.

_And_ there was room to land all of their gunships. Not something to take lightly in this terrain.

Clipping her lightsaber to her belt, Harissa felt shooting pain in her right bicep. She raised it, and couldn’t quite believe her eyes. She’d received a nasty burn.

No _wonder_ it hurt. The question was how in _blazes_ had she _not noticed_ it earlier?

_And when did it happen?_

She couldn’t figure out the answer to the question, and the wooziness the wound was providing didn’t help.

_You didn’t make me dizzy_ before _I saw you_ , she growled inside.

She found where the medics were entrenched. Sitting down on a crate at the edge of the bustle, she inspected her arm.

“Let’s take a look at that.”

Harissa looked up to find Bandage standing over her. “Oh, no,” she objected. “I can wait.”

Bandage ignored her, holding out his hand for her arm.

Next thing she knew, he’d emptied a hypo into her neck.

Numbness swirled through her blood.

Not good.

“Bandage, Jedi don’t use painkillers. It can mess around with your interaction with the Force—”

“Mmm-hmm,” he said, voice soothing, though Harissa could sense she was making no impact.

“And I’m not in bad shape,” she added.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” In his hand he held a—

Her eyes widened. “You’re not going to—”

But he’d already cut open her sleeve.

She glared up at him. “I’m going to have to _sew_ that, you know!”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Harissa hissed her breath in between her teeth as he tended the burn.

She became aware of her feet. Sore to the bone. And the ankle she’d twisted— how long ago was that?— was aching.

Actually, just about _every_ muscle was aching. And her eyelids wanted to close and _stay_ closed. She fought them, but wasn’t sure why.

A pat on her shoulder signaled Bandage was done. Harissa looked down at her arm, saw only the wrappings and tattered, _cut_ sleeve. Could she even piece it together? It had holes in it, was frayed... and that didn’t even count the stains.

It would take some creative stitching this time.

“Have you seen Skid? Threetu?”

Harissa’s head snapped up to see Blinder. Singe and Mimic were moving among the wounded, hunting with a methodical urgency. Their helmets were off. Mimic had a black eye, Singe a bloodied nose.

All three had a sickening worry in their faces that chilled her to the bone.

She could sense just how deep the fear ran.

“No,” was Bandage’s immediate response. “I don’t have either of them.”

Mimic and Singe didn’t give Bandage a response, they simply bolted from the recovery area and back out towards the battlefield.

Harissa lunged after them, sensing Blinder on her heels.

“How are we going to find them?” she called, pain long forgotten.

It brought them up short.

Blinder grabbed her elbow. “I saw you. The other day, you walked through the mess with your eyes closed.”

She turned her head, met his frantic gaze. The fear spiking the brown depths of his eyes bled into her own heart.

“You were looking for someone, weren’t you?” Mimic added. “You found them without your eyes. You can find Skid and Threetu.”

_Could_ she?

This was a much larger area, and the darkness of death still lay heavy all around. It made sensing anything with any clarity difficult. Not to mention the painkillers coursing through her system.

Harissa closed her eyes.

Loud around her were the Force signatures of Mimic, Singe, and Blinder. So loud in their anxiety. So loud.

She stretched out beyond them, tried to hear something else.

Pain. Grief. Anger. A lot of anger. A couple of the signatures were wavering, flickering. Going out.

Bandage had two patients who weren’t going to make it.

Harissa squeezed her eyes tighter shut. _No. You’re not looking for them._ Focus _, Padawan._

She thought of Skid. The first moment she’d seen him. Saving a terrified child. Not just on the field of battle, but in the mess hall afterwards. She thought of how his signature in the Force felt when he interacted with Wek.

And Threetu. His sense of humor.

The way his signature sparkled when he called her _mom_.

_“You can ask me anything. Even weird stuff.”_

_Where are you?_

_There_.

Threetu.

As she touched his mind, she cried out, her legs weakening.

Clone hands caught her. Kept her upright.

The pain, the anger— no, _rage_ —

Harissa’s eyes flew open to find three faces, carved from pure intensity. “I can find Threetu. He’s hurt.”

But now there were too many signals coming to her brain. All the cues her eyes gave her muddied the waters.

She let her eyelids fall shut again.

Focusing entirely on Threetu, she dimly realized her hand had followed her mind.

She took a step. Another.

The battlefield was strewn with obstacles. She sensed them in the Force and avoided them.

They were getting close.

A cry from Blinder wrenched her eyes open again.

She could _see_ Threetu now, kneeling. Rocking.

And in front of him—

Harissa’s mind froze.

No.

_No_.

Oh, Force, _please no_.

Mimic, Singe, and Blinder raced forward, but Harissa couldn’t move, her feet trapped, her lungs struggling to drag oxygen from the air.

It _wasn’t_ Skid. _couldn’t_ be Skid. It—

Harissa stared at the jagged shards of white armor, stained brown and crimson. The blood everywhere.

She wanted to look away. To block out what she was seeing.

What it _meant_.

But her mind and heart weren’t in sync.

_There’s nothing left of him._

Nothing but drenched pieces.

She’d misunderstood.

Threetu’s pain wasn’t _physical_.

Now she could sense it. The sudden shock. One moment Skid by his side, cheering at the retreating droids.

The next—

_No. No_ , Harissa begged the Force. _Don’t show me any more. I can’t—_

The next moment Threetu was showered with what was left of his brother.

Left standing there, unscathed.

Unscathed and eviscerated.

Mimic was striding away. His helmet lay discarded on the ground. In the Force, he felt like the explosive device that had slaughtered Skid.

He was going to lose it. Soon.

Blinder stood frozen. Numb.

He couldn’t accept it. It didn’t make sense. He was going to wake up in a moment.

It _wasn’t Skid_.

Singe was on his knees, reaching out to the only piece of Skid’s armor that was recognizable. The upper chest plate. It was broken, empty, burned.

Singe’s fingers connected with it. As they did, his shoulders shuddered.

Threetu shoved himself to his feet, spinning away from his brothers.

Harissa could see the mad anguish in his eyes. The Padawan jumped as Mimic let loose a yell of pure fury and loss. Her gaze snapped to find him.

Something shifted in his path, and out came two pistols, burning the still-moving battle droid’s head to molten slag.

Blasterfire continued long after the droid’s demise, destroying its spine. It hands. Its feet.

Harissa turned her head away from him to find Threetu walking towards her.

His eyes were dry, crazed, and aimed for her face.

Her foot moved, taking her a step towards him.

She couldn’t keep her gaze from flicking back to what had been Skid. It wasn’t something she could control.

Threetu almost made it to her.

A meter away he crashed to his knees. He looked down at his hands.

Harissa could smell the gore on him. Its stench had to be burning his nostrils.

Tears filled his eyes, tracked down the soot and mud on his face. He looked up at her, mute.

And Harissa’s heart, struck through with fault lines the instant she’d realized what had happened, shattered.

She rushed forward, dropped to kneel beside the broken Threetu, and wrapped her arms around him. He dropped his head into her shoulder and wept. Leaning her head against his, Harissa squeezed her eyes shut against the burning tears that cut down her face.

The pain here had to be a column in the Force. A pulsing beacon.

So why wasn’t her Master here?

She didn’t have the strength to call to him.

_Skid_.

Hands on her shoulder. Beneath her elbow. Pulling, drawing her to her feet.

She recognized the calm clone. Sketch was helping Singe to his feet.

Ned was guiding Blinder, whose face and eyes were vacant, away from the carnage.

Turning her head, Harissa could see Mimic, blasters gripped tightly in both fists, shoulders hunched, breathing ragged.

Keeli stood with him. Helmet off, hand on the back of Mimic’s neck.

Harissa obeyed the light pressure on her arm and followed the calm one back towards camp.

Threetu trudged beside her. She could feel his helpless anger. A cold, hard knot in his gut, sunk in an ocean of pain.

Bandage intercepted them. Shone a light in Threetu’s eyes. Peeled the armor off him. At first Threetu snarled and tried to leave, but Bandage asserted his authority and Threetu submitted.

Harissa left them, stumbling towards the fighters.

She didn’t know where her quarters were, and she needed to get _away_. Be _alone_.

As the cockpit sealed over her, a whistle reminded her she still had company.

Launching herself out of the tiny ship she took a few steps, not knowing where she was headed, and then just gave up.

Sitting, she wrapped her arms around her knees and let the tears have their way.

_Skid_.

Smothered in a blanket of heartache, Harissa saw her Master before sensing him.

Without a word, he sat beside her on the wet, squishy ground.

“What are they going to do without him?” Harissa demanded, swiping at her tears with her bandage. The sleeve hung heavy and soaked from her elbow. Another indicator of the misery of New Draxis. “He was the _leader_. The _spokesman_. They’ve been together since hatching—” She shut her eyes against the pain.

“Live. They live, Harissa.”

“But the squad is broken now.” What was this going to _do_ to them?

She felt Ima-Gun touching her mind in the Force. A gentle, so gentle caress. Her soul leaned into the contact. His calm sharing in her grief.

For long minutes neither spoke a word.

Each second that passed opened a little more of Harissa’s mind to contemplation.

She wished it wouldn’t.

The thoughts were unbearable, but she couldn’t stop them.

She’d felt so good, saving Threetu yesterday.

But where’d she been when _Skid_ needed her? The man who had already saved _her_ life?

Skid’s enthusiasm for home-cooked meals. The way he’d looked out for her as she’d tried to find her place in the 337th.

And two nights ago, the squad all together. Not talking. Just existing in the exhaustion and relief that Threetu wasn’t severely hurt.

They would never be whole like that again.

The last time she’d felt pain like this, she’d lost a Master.

_How many times can my heart break before I just can’t take anymore?_

She glanced up into Ima-Gun’s rough face. _You’re next._

This kind of tragedy had been striking every battle they fought.

Clones had experienced what she was feeling now.

It was only now that she’d lost someone this close to _her_.

But give it time, and she would lose more. Attrition. It was war. By definition she _had_ to lose more before it was over.

It was inevitable.

She couldn’t do that.

This was nightmare enough; how could she _stand_ to lose more?

“Let’s go inside. You should change into dry clothes.”

Harissa obeyed her Master’s voice, retrieving her clothes from the fighter. Ima-Gun showed her to the room that was now hers.

It had been a supply closet hours ago.

Now it was a roof over her head, and dry flooring beneath her feet.

She peeled off the bloody, muddy clothes. Tried to wipe as much of the mud from her face and hands as she could before putting on her other tunic and leggings.

She couldn’t stand the thought of putting her wet boots on over her dry socks. Propping the boots up, hoping they might dry out some, she padded out into the hall without them.

She sensed a familiar presence nearby. Following it, she found Singe. He sat on a crate, alone in the droids’ armory.

Grateful for the quiet, she lowered herself to a box near his.

Harissa wanted to say something, but had no idea _what_.

The words that came out of her mouth had no real forethought. Just raw grief. “ _Why_ are we even here?”

“Somebody’s got to protect those who can’t protect themselves. It’s right,” Singe said.

Harissa could find no hint of sarcasm in his tone or sense. “You believe that.”

“To the core.”

“And what about _us_? Who’s going to fight for _us_?” she demanded.

Singe shook his head. “We fight for each other.”

“Yeah?” Harissa didn’t try to temper the challenge in her voice. “And when we’re broken and don’t have anything left to give? Who fights for us then?”

Singe didn’t answer.

“We go through all of this for the galaxy. For its people. Right? But are they worth it?”

The clone didn’t respond.

She turned. Leaned forward. “ _Singe_. Are they worth it?”

He wouldn’t look at her.

“Why are we taking any of this for them? They don’t care. They just _expect_ us to take it. Jedi. Clones. They _expect_ us to save them. They don’t care what happens to us. What we lose. _We’re_ the only ones who know. And _we’re_ the only ones who care. We care for them, but do they take care of us? No. The Jedi— _they’re_ my family. The Three-Thirty-Seventh. _You’re_ my family. The rest of the galaxy? What happens if we stop fighting for _them_?”

“We don’t have a choice.” Singe’s voice, nearly inaudible, grated Harissa’s ears. “We’re property. I don’t know why the Jedi have thrown their lot in with us. _Your_ people have a choice.”

_No. Not really. Not in the face of such an injustice._

Of _course_ the Jedi were standing with them.

And would to the end, whatever that might be. Freedom... or death.

_We’re_ all _trapped._

It felt like the walls were closing in around her.

It didn’t matter how hard they tried. They _couldn’t_ protect one another.

She couldn’t protect her masters.

Singe couldn’t protect his brothers.

Harissa stood, shoving herself away from the crate and storming out the door.

This was an insidious snare. Something that only led to death— Jedi death, clone death.

She found her master and interrupted his discussion with— Harissa wasn’t even sure who with.

Cutting him off mid-sentence, she said, “We need to talk. Now. Alone.”

She didn’t even feel shock at her temerity. Just a burning need.

In the Force, her master’s surprise shifted to grim understanding.

No.

He _didn’t_ understand. He _couldn’t_. She hadn’t _said_ anything yet.

His expression needled the anger and caged desperation she already felt into something even more venomous.

Clones drained from the room without a word, and the doors slid shut behind them.

Harissa didn’t waste any time.

“I’m done.”

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

 

Ima-Gun sized her up, using both eyes and the Force. It felt like a stick, jabbing at a trapped nexu.

“You are.” His tone was neutral. Encouraging elaboration.

Anything but contradictory or antagonistic.

“I _can’t_ keep doing this, and I _won’t_. Some of the best moments of my life have been as your Padawan, but I _can’t_ keep living like this.”

She expected an argument, or a command, but all he said was, “I see.”

Her soul burned, threatening to unleash tears.

That wouldn’t help this situation.

“This isn’t where I belong, and I want _nothing_ more to do with this.” Her fury churned so thick around her she almost expected to _see_ it.

“You want to return to the Temple?”

Why wasn’t he feeling threatened? Insulted? Rejected? Frustrated that she was failing?

She was telling him she was leaving him. His reaction didn’t make _sense_.

“Yes.” Her heart skipped a beat at her words.

She hadn’t been exaggerating in what she’d said earlier. It had been so long since she’d felt _alive_.

Ima-Gun had given her that.

But reality was back.

His voice was gentle, quiet as he asked, “Do you want to say goodbye to anyone before you go?”

Harissa’s heart stopped beating entirely.

Faces flooded her mind.

Sketch. Ned. Ced. Blinder. Mimic. Singe.

Threetu.

_That_ mental image was speaking. “Mom?” it asked, surprise, hurt in those brown eyes.

_You’re not real_ , she snarled.

And they were all going to die anyway. If not today, then tomorrow or the next.

That’s what war _did_. It took everything away from you.

If she stayed, her heart would be _destroyed_ , one agonized piece at a time.

And Ima-Gun.

She’d lose him too.

That was already carved in stone.

How could she face them all and tell them she was abandoning them?

“No.” She’d have to leave _without_ goodbyes.

They could form their own opinions.

_I guess you were right not to trust me_ , she thought bitterly at Keeli, who was there in her mind’s picture. Arms folded disapprovingly. Eyes narrowed in condemnation.

It goaded her.

_This isn’t my first time through this, you know._

That brought other faces to mind.

_Beloved_ faces.

Dead faces.

Her breathing harshened as she closed her eyes, trying to keep control.

She needed to get out of here _now_. _Before_ things got worse.

Because they could only _get_ worse.

“I would like to see if I understand this correctly,” Ima-Gun spoke into the churning of her thoughts. “Correct me when I err. You responded to your first couple of masters with an open heart and anticipation of what was ahead. After losing them, you shut yourself off. Refused to connect with _anyone_. The more you lost, the more it confirmed the wisdom of your decision. You needed to protect yourself from the continuing blows. You shut down your life. You’d received training on how to withstand long-term torture. You turned to those techniques.”

She couldn’t breathe. His words were terrible, tearing away at the screens she’d put up to shield herself.

She hadn’t seen her choices in that light before.

_But he’s right. Life_ is _imprisonment and torture._

“I came for you. I wanted you. You began to think that maybe the prison door was opening. Maybe you could just walk out. Be free. I offered you a way to _live_ , and you took a chance. You opened your heart again.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks, bearing silent witness to her anguish.

“But the pain has come back. The losses. You want to get out while you still can. You feel that the only way for your mind and soul to survive is to disconnect from all of us, and for that, distance would be very useful. That way you wouldn’t see and sense our pain as you pull away and turn inward. You feel that since our deaths are inevitable, you need to shore yourself up against those blows. That you aren’t strong enough to weather them.”

“I’m not!” she tried to yell at him. She only succeeded in uttering the words as a strangled rasp. “You’re right. I thought the first couple of times I _was_. I know better now. I’ve lost that overconfident, naive, carefree—” the sentence wasn’t working. She started another. “I _know_ how this goes.”

“You’re thinking you were right to begin with. You want to stop living. Again. Since you are sure we are going to die, you want us to die alone, so you don’t have to watch and feel it.”

The accusation dried her tears. “How _dare_ you—”

“You feel our deaths inevitable, so your choices are to stay or leave. True or false?”

She glared at him.

“Answer me, Padawan.”

“True.”

“I didn’t see you turning away from the wounded in your first battle. You didn’t care if it hurt you. You wanted to make their last moments better. As far as it was in your power. You feel that we are dying, that _we_ just don’t know it yet, and that there’s nothing that can be done to prevent it. Fine. Then why aren’t you responding the same way? Why do you want to leave these men, instead of making their last days, last hours better? Standing _by_ them, valuing them, letting them know they matter while there’s still time?”

Harissa stared at him. Was it _really_ the same thing? It didn’t _feel_ like it.

Ima-Gun stepped closer to her. A moment ago, she would have moved away, but with doubt seeping through her resolve, she just stood still. He reached out to her, his hand resting heavy on her shoulder.

“What you aren’t seeing is that you _did_ make Skid’s final days better. He was better off for having you by his side. And so are his brothers. You aren’t making things worse.”

“But my heart—” Harissa’s voice broke, and she couldn’t get any more words out. Tears blurred her vision as she looked up into her Master’s face. Couldn’t he _sense_ it? How the pain was _drowning_ her? How many people could a person lose?

Fingers tightened against her shoulder. “The question is, are you willing to endure that pain for them?”

_Am I willing to give myself for them? That’s practically asking, ‘will you be a Jedi?’_

She could run. Ima-Gun might release her from her Padawanship and let her run.

But could she abandon those men?

They would be left here, enduring this, whether she stayed or left. She could see that clearly now.

_Master Di won’t leave them. Even if I ran away, he wouldn’t. He’d stay and face this. Alone_.

All those clone faces... and the face before her now... so dear to her, so tightly woven into her soul...

There was only one answer she could give him. “Anything. I’ll take anything for you and them.” Tears streaked down her face.

The pain was still there and still overwhelming, but the humiliation, the hatred of herself, was gone.

Ima-Gun’s response washed over her in the Force.

How proud he was of her. How he hurt alongside her. How she wouldn’t face _any_ of this alone. How much he treasured her.

Her soul reached out to his strength and clung to it.

 

* * *

 

“Captain. I think you’d better hear this.”

Keeli, out helping Bandage with the wounded, straightened from his crouch. “What is it?”

Instead of answering, his brother patched audio in.

_“I_ can’t _keep doing this, and I_ won’t _. Some of the best moments of my life have been as your Padawan, but I_ can’t _keep living like this.”_

Keeli glanced at his HUD’s indicator and discovered this was being heard by the entire 337th. The Commander was doing this in front of the men?

Keeli set his jaw.

He’d been right.

They _shouldn’t_ have brought a child into this.

_“I see.”_ That was the General.

_“This isn’t where I belong, and I want_ nothing _more to do with this.”_

Bandage froze and turned. His gaze searched Keeli’s faceplate, shock in his eyes.

_“You want to return to the Temple?”_

_“Yes.”_

Keeli could practically feel the betrayal that was swift replacing the shock his brothers felt. In the eyes not hidden by helmets, he saw flashes of hurt and anger.

And no wonder.

All the clones had were their Jedi.

And their Jedi was rejecting them.

All forward moment ceased. The men of the 337th were too focused on their comlinks.

_“Do you want to say goodbye to anyone before you go?”_

_“No.”_

He heard someone hiss in a breath through clenched teeth. Out of the corner of his vision, Keeli saw someone else punch a sheet of metal, part of a destroyed AT-TE.

He understood the fury, but he felt none of it. Now he just wished his brothers hadn’t trusted her so freely. Hadn’t opened themselves up to this.

Not only was she walking out on them, she wasn’t going to look them in the face while she did it.

How could she stand there and _do_ that in front of the men in the room? Because this was a live feed from a brother’s comlink, so at least _one_ clone was present.

_“I would like to see if I understand this correctly. Correct me when I err. You responded to your first couple of masters with an open heart and anticipation of what was ahead. After losing them, you shut yourself off. Refused to connect with_ anyone _. The more you lost, the more it confirmed the wisdom of your decision. You needed to protect yourself from the continuing blows. You shut down your life. You’d received training on how to withstand long-term torture. You turned to those techniques._

_“I came for you. I wanted you. You began to think that maybe the prison door was opening. Maybe you could just walk out. Be free. I offered you a way to_ live _, and you took a chance. You opened your heart again.”_

Emotion, unexpected and raw, interrupted Keeli’s grim certainty.

She was running from _herself_? She wasn’t running because she _didn’t_ care?

The men around him stood very still.

_“But the pain has come back. The losses. You want to get out while you still can. You feel that the only way for your mind and soul to survive is to disconnect from all of us, and for that, distance would be very useful. That way you wouldn’t see and sense our pain as you pull away and turn inward. You feel that since our deaths are inevitable, you need to shore yourself up against those blows. That you aren’t strong enough to weather them.”_

_“I’m not!”_

Keeli could hear the brokenness of her tone.

He recognized it.

He’d seen it in his brothers.

He’d felt it himself.

That moment after death when nothing makes sense and all is anguish.

_“You’re right. I thought the first couple of times I_ was _. I know better now. I’ve lost that overconfident, naive, carefree— I_ know _how this goes.”_

_Poor kid. Forced to grow up too fast. Shoved into war too soon._

He couldn’t blame her for leaving.

He and his brothers had been _trained_ to handle the emotional devastations here. Trained to expect them. Had been _made_ for this.

Harissa Nol might have rank, but she was _just_ a kid.

_“You’re thinking you were right to begin with. You want to stop living. Again. Since you are sure we are going to die, you want us to die alone, so you don’t have to watch and feel it.”_

_“How_ dare _you—”_

_“You feel our deaths inevitable, so your choices are to stay or leave. True or false?”_

Utter silence surrounded Keeli as his brothers waited for the response.

_“Answer me, Padawan.”_

_“True.”_

Bandage and several others scowled. Keeli ignored them.

_“I didn’t see you turning away from the wounded in your first battle. You didn’t care if it hurt you. You wanted to make their last moments better. As far as it was in your power. You feel that we are dying, that_ we _just don’t know it yet, and that there’s nothing that can be done to prevent it. Fine. Then why aren’t you responding the same way? Why do you want to leave these men, instead of making their last days, last hours better? Standing_ by _them, valuing them, letting them know they matter while there’s still time?”_

Keeli remembered seeing Harissa holding Threetu less than an hour earlier.

Any hint of anger had drained out of him. He could tell it _hadn’t_ from his brothers, but he saw this differently.

_“What you aren’t seeing is that you_ did _make Skid’s final days better. He was better off for having you by his side. And so are his brothers. You aren’t making things worse.”_

_“But my heart—”_

Keeli could hear Harissa’s shuddering breaths.

_Damned Seppies._

If it wasn’t for this war, she wouldn’t be going through this at all.

_“The question is, are you willing to endure that pain for them?”_

Clones as far as his eyes could locate them, and he _knew_ beyond that, waited.

The silence stretched long. Agonizing.

_She’ll say no. And she’ll be right to say no. Send her home, General. She doesn’t belong here, and she shouldn’t have to endure this any more than any other child._

_“Anything. I’ll take anything for you and them.”_

Keeli couldn’t believe his ears.

The determination in her voice, the devotion?

_I misjudged her._

She hadn’t been pretending to care about his brothers because she enjoyed their hero-worship.

She cared about them _as much_ as they cared about her.

Dimly, he saw the explosion of response coming from the brothers around him. Laughter. Back-slapping. Cheering. “I _knew_ she couldn’t just abandon us,” and “ _That’s_ our Commander!”

Keeli pulled away from them, taking refuge behind a gunship. He pulled his helmet off and leaned against the sloped side.

Maybe it was time to start trusting her.

It wasn’t an easy thought, but it couldn’t be ignored.

_She’s chosen us over herself._

_She_ chose us _._

That was a Padawan worthy of his General.

And yes.

A Commander worthy of his men.

_And a Commander worthy of my allegiance._

 

* * *

 

As Harissa retreated to her room for some much-needed sleep, Ima-Gun leaned against the holotable.

Harissa continued to rise to the occasion. Time after time after time.

_What a knight she will make._

And when she took a Padawan of her own?

_I hope I’ll have the opportunity to watch her teach._

A tiny, familiar shape caught his eye.

A comlink.

Sitting on the holotable, obviously set to not attract the attention of the Jedi, and transmitting.

Annoyance was the first thing that slammed through his soul, followed almost instantly by amusement. The two blended together and expressed themselves in a chuckle. Stepping around the table, he picked up the link.

“Listener? I assume you’re standing next to someone _else’s_ comlink at the moment?”

There was a slight crackle as mute switched over and a voice, clear of any guilt whatsoever, called back, “Yes Sir!”

Ima-Gun shook his head, eyeing the setting.

Listener hadn’t just been eavesdropping _himself_. He’d included _everybody_ this time.

_Next spying mission that comes up?_ He’s _on it._

“What have I said about sitting in on superior officers’ discussions when you’ve been asked to leave?” Ima-Gun forced his voice to be serious, without any hint of amusement.

The _last_ thing Listener needed was _encouragement_.

His behavior was compulsive enough as it _was_.

“Respect the orders, Sir,” came Listener’s prompt response. “The Commander didn’t seem to be requesting something that had to do with security and the structure of military command. It looked and sounded personal.”

Ima-Gun had to clench his teeth against the low laughter that threatened to spill out.

“Listener. It’s perhaps even _more_ important to give people space _for_ that reason. It’s generally considered rude to intrude on personal, private discussions.”

“It is?”

Oh, the innocent surprise in that voice.

“Yes, Listener.”

“My apologies, General.” He didn’t sound too sorry.

Another comlink switched over from mute. “Listener? You were eavesdropping again?”

Ah. Keeli.

And _he_ sounded _very_ annoyed.

“I thought that was obvious, Sir.”

“No, it was _not_! Not when the call to _me_ comes in through Kenn’s link, and it’s _Kenn_ who tells me to pay attention! You made all of _us_ involved in _your_ —”

“Easy, Keeli,” Ima-Gun soothed.

“Your growth jar was compromised!” groaned another voice over the link. “The Commander’s gonna hate you, Listener. Probably Kenn too.”

“Cut the chatter,” Ima-Gun directed. “Listener, come retrieve your comlink, then get back to whatever it is you were _supposed_ to be doing.”

“Sir, yes Sir!” came the cheerful response.

_And next time something comes up, you’ll be listening again._

If he ever needed Listener to _not_ know something, he was going to have to be ridiculously meticulous and careful.

_ I better warn Harissa of that sometime. _

“Kenn?”

“Yes, General?”

“You shouldn’t have helped him.”

“Yes, General.” Oh, he knew.

And there wasn’t a hint of remorse.

_Why am I not surprised?_

Ima-Gun smiled to himself as he left the room.

 


	19. Chapter 19

Harissa woke up only long enough to eat dinner, which she did alone in her closet, and then went to sleep again.

She was too drained for anything else.

In the morning, she walked straight for the command center in still-damp boots while chewing on a ration bar.

As she passed clones in the halls, none of them very familiar, they made eye-contact, and their eyes lit up. They would throw her a nod, a salute, or simply a beaming smile.

_What’s gotten into them?_ she wondered.

And _then_ she ran into Keeli.

 

* * *

 

“Good morning.” Keeli considered Harissa’s new hair style.

It certainly made her fit in better with the look of the battalion.

Her eyes widened. “Good morning,” she returned, the inflection rising just enough to reveal her shock at being addressed.

Keeli did _not_ want to be the one to tell her that her privacy had been invaded by himself and his brothers.

Again.

According to Threetu, it had been weird when she discovered they’d seen her lightsaber flow. Considering that report, Keeli couldn’t imagine it would be _better_ with _this_ — an actual _argument_ with her master.

Or whatever it had been.

Either way, Keeli didn’t want to be the one to reveal _that_ bit of trivia.

“I saw what you tried to do. With Level and me.”

Harissa’s brows furrowed. “Level?”

“You worked _with_ us instead of independently.”

“Oh! Calm One!”

Keeli raised an eyebrow. “Calm One?”

“In the Force, he always feels calm. Steady. He doesn’t get rocked or emotionally involved in what’s going on.”

Keeli gave her a nod. “Level.”

Harissa barked a low, uneasy laugh, and then stood perfectly silent.

Now what? Keeli felt slight frustration. Why was it so easy for his brothers to talk with her? They made it look... natural. This felt... _awkward_.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry about Skid.” Oh, kark, that wasn’t what he’d—

Harissa’s face clouded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Keeli somehow managed a nod and hurried off, scowling to himself the whole way.

 

* * *

 

Harissa turned to watch the Captain’s retreat.

_What was_ that  _about?_

He’d seemed... almost conciliatory.

Harissa shook her head, relegating the mystery to the pile of Things-That-Would-Probably-Never-Be-Explained, and finished her bar.

A faint scent caught her attention.

The leftover stench of the funeral pyre.

_They held it without me._

That, she reflected, was a good thing. This time.

She’d needed the break sleep had given her.

_What a mess we’re in._

Not just the 337th, but all of the clone army and Jedi.

_The only hope we’ve got is to end this war quickly. By diplomacy, or violence. But with the Separatists point-blank refusing to allow_ us _to mediate, it’s up to the Senate and their Parliament to work out a peace._

_Could_ they?

With all of their little motivations, little squabbles, different goals?

_We’re going to be stuck with violence._

Was it wrong for her to assume the leaders on both sides would _not_ be the best they could be? That they _wouldn’t_ rise to the occasion?

“Ah. Harissa.”

The Padawan looked up, found her Master approaching.

“You and I are going to fly cover for the men. We’re leaving in minutes.”

Harissa gave him a nod and followed him to their fighters.

The few clones they passed were rushing to their places and didn’t have time to greet her, but they threw Harissa intense glances with nods and sparkling eyes.

What in blazes was going on?

“Master? Has something happened? The men seem happy, and Keeli spoke to me. An _actual_ conversation.”

“Did he, now?” Ima-Gun chuckled. “I wonder if his perspective is changing. Were you kind to him, Padawan?”

Harissa frowned and thought back. “Yes? I think? I don’t know. I was pretty shocked. That might have been obvious. It... _probably_ was obvious.” Inwardly, she kicked herself. She wanted Keeli to relax around her. She shouldn’t make his attempts at peace harder than they _had_ to be for him.

_Why didn’t I think of that earlier?_

Ima-Gun giving orders into his comlink as he climbed into his fighter and prepped it for flight prevented Harissa from asking him _why_ Keeli’s perspective would be changing.

It didn’t take long for the fierce sky battle to drive any questions about the Captain from her mind.

It was a difficult thing, knowing Dao was so far away, out of reach.

Before, he’d always _been_ there. Holding the supply line open, not to mention the option of retreat or reinforcements.

Now?

If things went badly, they had nowhere to go.

No one to reinforce them.

Harissa couldn’t wait for the Recovery’s return.

Neight’s now-familiar warnings wove in and out of her Force connection with her master and the constant calling over the open comm.

Ima-Gun’s voice, those of the clones, Artwelve’s terrified screams; a whisper in the Force nudging her out of harm’s way...

It was all starting to feel familiar.

Would it ever feel _normal_?

And just how corrupted would that be?

It wasn’t a worry she could afford to give attention to right now.

Distraction in battle resulted in suffering. For you, or for others.

After several hours of struggle, the GAR pulled back a bit to recover.

They hurriedly ate, bound up wounds, and headed out again.

This time the Jedi joined in on foot.

Lightsabers blazing, they waded into the hail of fire.

Harissa’s connection with her Master and the clones pulsed strong, binding her soul more closely with theirs.

Her body was growing accustomed to how _loud_ battle was.

She was also beginning to adjust to the spontaneity of it. Oh, she still jumped on occasion, but grenades, unexpected cannon pulses, and the explosions of a crashing fighter or tank grew ever more commonplace.

This latest attempt to take the Seppies went no better than the last, and once again, the GAR had to leave the field in the enemy’s hands.

The 337th was _not_ happy with the withdraw, and the mocking of the droids didn’t help.

“To keep fighting just to prove we _can_ is pointless if we can do it _better_ tomorrow. We’ll get them yet, men. And I want you well rested, because we’re moving _before_ it gets light and taking the fight back to those rusty clankers. They’re dead— they just don’t know it yet.”

Keeli’s words, his utter lack of sympathy with his brothers’ wounded griping, certainly caught their attention.

It also snagged Harissa’s.

She could feel the shift in his brothers in response to him, the anger at pride slighted turning to anticipation of smashing their enemies against New Draxis’ unforgiving stone.

“Commander. Let’s take a look at that.”

Harissa turned to find Bandage at her elbow. Where had _he_ come from?

The Padawan frowned at him. “At what? The burn is fine. It’s getting better.”

“Your arms look like Sterenian art.” Placing a hand on her shoulder, he steered her towards his kingdom.

As her feet obeyed, Harissa looked down at her forearms; and as her mind made sense of the shards of durasteel sticking out of bloodied cloth, pain began to throb a cruel rhythm through abused flesh.

_Oh,_ now _you start to hurt?_

When had this happened? She really should have been _aware_ of damage like this, right?

She located a dim memory, one so similar to all the rest it was hard to pick out. One of the countless explosions. Fire and flying metal. Arms thrown up and body turned to protect face and chest.

And that was the sum total of the recollection.

Sure, it had _hurt_ , but she’d been too busy at the time to realize the pain wasn’t simply a matter of bruises.

Sitting on a crate, she didn’t have the heart to protest Bandage’s injection of pain-killing and infection-preventing drugs. Exhaustion was setting in, making it hard to think or even sit up.

Bandage saw it, moved her to a cot.

Next thing she knew, she was waking up to find Bandage finishing the dressing on her right forearm.

“Naptime over, Commander? You do realize that shrapnel could easily have punctured your face or vital organs?”

She shrugged, the motion painful. “What’s your point?”

_I’m working through my fear. Why are you trying to make it worse?_

“I think you should consider wearing some protection. This is the second day in a row I’ve had to patch you up.”

“Master Di doesn’t wear armor.”

“Correction: he _does_ wear forearm armor. For this very reason. Also, he has lived around bombs a _lot_ longer than you have, and more importantly, he doesn’t come to me stuck full of knives or burned. Also, when you’re hurt, you’re more likely to end up _more_ hurt as you continue to fight.”

“It messes with focus and endurance and speed and flexibility,” Harissa offered, to prove she _did_ understand the concept.

“You take care of us,” a voice said behind her. “It’s about time you let us take care of you.”

Harissa sat up and looked around.

She found Singe.

Around him stood Blinder, Mimic, and Threetu.

Harissa focused on what Singe held in his hands.

An upper shoulder-and-chest guard, like many Jedi wore.

“Worker made it to fit you,” Singe explained.

Touched, Harissa reached out for it. “Thank you.”

Something struck her between the eyes. A savage blow that had her hand jerking back from the offering.

“It’s _Skid’s_!” she choked, overwhelmed by the horror in the Force surrounding the object.

“Yes,” Singe said simply.

Harissa stared up at him. “I can’t take it!”

The clones looked confused. Bandage moved so he could see her face. “Why?” the medic probed.

“He owned almost nothing. To just re-purpose his belongings— I can’t wipe out his memory like that! Right now it’s _Skid’s_. If we make it _mine_ , when people see it, they’ll think of _me_!”

“He would want you protected,” Bandage pointed out. “And his squad—”

Blinder interrupted him to finish the sentence. “His squad wants it.”

Harissa shook her head, and tried to hide the trembling in her hand.

“You could have left,” Threetu spoke up. “You chose to stay _for us_. _With_ us. It makes you _one_ of us. We want to keep you safe. Skid always wanted that. And you’re not erasing him. You’ll be representing Skid on the field. Every time you wear it. It’s alright, Mom. Trust me.”

Harissa searched his pleading face, all of their faces, and what they felt like in the Force.

They wanted this.

Badly.

Somehow, it meant a _lot_ to them.

But how could she bear wearing something that reeked in the Force of Skid’s death? It would chafe at her soul just as much as it might comfort the clones’.

Hesitant and slow, she took the reworked plasteel from Singe’s hands. Felt the cool, clean surface against her fingers. Her eyelids fell shut as she studied it in the Force.

Pain.

Fear.

Blood.

Death.

She forced herself to just feel it. It hurt so much. She stilled her turbulent mind to just experience the moment.

In the silence, something new brushed against her heart. She followed it back to the source.

The horrible last moments of Skid’s life were loud, a cloud surrounding the armor in the Force. Sharp and insistent.

But what ran _deepest_ , into the very core of the armor itself...

Kindness.

Determination.

Love for his brothers, general, and commander.

Harissa’s fingers against the plate responded. She no longer held them against it like she was touching a burning coal. Instead, her fingertips caressed it softly.

Lingering traces of Skid.

He had experienced so much while wearing this armor.

She couldn’t see anything specific, but the gentle direction of his life had left its mark.

Courage.

Compassion.

Loyalty.

A tear slipped from her squeezed shut eyes.

There were traces of his laughter.

How he relished life.

They couldn’t outscream the terrible mist surrounding the armor. She would have to bear up under those first waves in order to reach the beauty beneath.

_But now I know where to find it._

She could feel it— his belief in what he was fighting for. His total assurance that it was worth it.

Hesitantly, she sifted through the horror surrounding it. Searching... searching....

No.

In those moments of fire and agony and death, he never once doubted that what he fought for was worth it.

Harissa shivered.

It had been hard. Almost impossible, to hold on to the memory of the good since his death. The loss had overshadowed everything that had come before.

The armor offered a focus point.

Yes. Every time she put it on, she would feel the bite of loss... but if she waited it out... she would feel the essence of who Skid _was_. What he fought for. What he believed to his core.

_And then I’ll go out there, and fight for that._

The clones were right.

This _was_ a good thing.

The sense of wonder Skid had possessed had a healing touch for her.

She thought of the Li family. Of their village.

Broadening her focus in the Force, she sensed the clones all around her. So many of them.

_Her_ vode.

Skid was right. It _was_ worth it.

She couldn’t help her slight smile as she sensed that the grumbling had almost completely gone away. There was a cheerful lethality now, an eager anticipation of the morning.

And a determination to sleep well so they could trounce the clankers all the better.

Opening her eyes, she looked up into the expectant faces before her. “I accept.”

She felt their relief. Their approval.

Saw the acceptance and belonging shining in their eyes. Became aware of the fact that many of their brothers had been unobtrusively paying very close attention to the whole incident. Which tickled something in her brain. Something that she hadn’t noticed at the time, but now...

“What did you mean when you said I could have left, but I chose to stay for you?”

Every clone face in her line of vision went very still and unreadable. Guilty flashes in eyes made her skin prickle.

“Your conversation with the General yesterday may... have been transmitted on open comm,” Blinder admitted.

“The whole Three-Thirty-Seventh heard that?” Harissa asked, her heart petrifying in her chest.

Singe gave her a worried nod.

A snort of laughter escaped her, startling the clones. “Well, that makes even _less_ sense now!”

They stared at her in confusion.

Harissa shook her head. “Everybody’s been looking at me like something wonderful has happened. I’ve been getting salutes and smiles and, I don’t know, _pride_. And Captain Keeli actually _spoke_ to me. And now I find out that’s _after_ you all heard me decide to abandon you.” She snickered again, hilarity stemming from humiliation taking possession of her.

Oh, the life she led now!

She’d never had more embarrassing moments in her life than she’d had here. Being asked for love advice. Lightsaber flow. The way she fell apart on her first day here.

And now...

_This_.

_I should just anticipate that from here on out, whatever is_ most humiliating _will_ definitely  _be seen by_ everybody _. Just realize that ahead of time._

And actually?

It didn’t hurt as much this time. Oh, her pride ached. Terribly. But maybe it was a good thing. It was obviously strengthening her, since she could laugh this time.

She _hadn’t_ been able to laugh before.

She focused on the clones’ faces.

The confusion was gone and they were beaming. Like they all had a big secret that she was utterly oblivious to.

 


	20. Chapter 20

It wasn’t easy, placing the armor over her shoulders the next morning. There was an intense moment of missing Skid.

And then she was out and moving.

She could sense the clones’ pleasure when they saw the shoulder guard. She didn’t know how much of the 337th knew of its significance, but they certainly liked its presence, either way.

And after a while...

So did she.

It felt right.

The satisfaction amongst the clones as they drove the droids from the field surged through the Force like adrenaline.

This time, Ima-Gun allowed them to pursue.

In an orderly, structured fashion, but they tormented the droid army’s rearguard.

And _oh_ , the clones enjoyed it.

Actually...

So did Harissa.

There was something pleasing about having the enemy on the run. About whittling away their numbers, with the droids unable to prevent it.

As evening approached, Ima-Gun and Keeli consulted scans and maps, trying to find a good place to dig in for the night.

Harissa watched them, trying to see what they saw. Advantages, disadvantages, safeties, dangers.

Possibilities.

“The forest is too thick to land the gunships,” Keeli pointed out.

Ima-Gun tapped at the holomap with a heavy claw. “Tontu is not far out of our way, and it’s the only place where we can put the ships down. Harissa. Take your fighter and make contact with the Head. Ask them for permission to spend the night. Tell them we’ll leave in the morning, we’ll take care of ourselves, and we won’t be any trouble. We’ll sleep outside the village, in the surrounding forest. Call me when you have news.”

“Yes, Master.” Harissa hurried to Neight, delight stirring in her heart.

He _trusted_ her with this. Believed she could do it. Sent her like it was the most normal, reasonable thing in the universe, like it was nothing, like she was an extension of himself.

_He sent me to speak for him, without a second’s hesitation._

Even after she had nearly bailed on him.

_I don’t understand these men_ , she thought of both her master and the clones. _The more I mess up, the more they seem to trust me. Doesn’t make sense._

What she _did_ know was that the more they believed in her, the more she wanted to be worthy of it. To give her best.

It only took a few minutes’ flight to reach Tontu. At the whine of her approaching ship, figures scurried out of buildings into streets to stare up at it.

Harissa landed in the central square and popped the canopy.

Shrieks and squeals of joy brought her head up, and she discovered a wave of children rushing towards her. Neight burbled to himself, his dome twisting, optical sensor scanning close.

Harissa climbed out to the ground, only to be bombarded with a chorus of greetings.

She grinned down at them. “Hi.”

A little Rodian girl held something cupped in her hands. The other kids parted to let her pass, and she stepped right up to Harissa and held up her offering.

A light pink bead.

_Word certainly travels fast_ , Harissa marveled. She took the object and lightly caressed the Rodian’s cheek with her fingertips. “Thank you.”

“Put it in your hair!” A little human girl with pink crescents on her cheeks insisted.

The request was taken up by the others, and Harissa wanted nothing more than to capitulate. But...

“I need to speak with your Head first,” she explained. “My vode are out there and they need me to help them.” She wasn’t sure why she’d used the term. Probably because these kids reminded her of Wek.

“I am Head Keetiph.”

Harissa looked up to find an Ithorian, a translating box slung over the curved neck. She had no idea whether the individual was male or female, and decided it probably didn’t matter. “Head Keetiph. It’s an honor. My Master and his men are just a little ways up the mountain. We’ve been unable to find open space to land our gunships, and the pilots have been unable to rest all day. Would you be willing to allow us to land them in your streets, just for the night?” Harissa was about to add the rest of Ima-Gun’s message, but the Ithorian didn’t give her a chance.

“Of course.”

Harissa blinked. “Of course? Why— thank you. We’ll leave in the morning, and except for a small guard with the ships themselves, we’ll camp outside your village. We’ll stay as out of your way as possible—”

“It’s no imposition,” Keetiph interrupted. “We are glad to help.”

“Thank you,” Harissa said again, hoping the other could feel the weight in her words.

_Well, boys, looks like you’re about to get your break!_

Tapping her comlink, she waited until Ima-Gun answered. “General Di here.”

“Master. Head Keetiph says we’re welcome to land the gunships.”

“That is good news. We will see you soon.”

A small hand tugged at Harissa’s sleeve. “ _Now_ will you put the bead in?”

“Certainly.” Harissa sat on the ground so they could watch. Tracing her fingers over the braid, she started undoing it.

“Why are you doing that?” a small Zabrak boy asked. His beautiful olive skin was feathered with light pink lines.

“See how the beads are near the front, here?” she asked, pointing.

He nodded his little horned head.

“I have to unbraid the rest of it in order to put the bead next to those ones. And then I’ll put it all back again.”

“Is it hard?” The Rodian again.

Harissa winced as she accidentally tugged a hair, feeling the sharp stab of pain. “It was the first couple of times I did it. Now it’s getting easier.”

“Why do you only have Kertu and Reltu?” the human girl asked.

Sliding the bead onto the thin lock of hair, Harissa pushed it up to nestle with the others. “Those are the only villages I’ve been to so far.”

“And here,” the girl corrected.

Harissa smiled at her. “That’s right. And now here.” Within moments, she was braiding the hair tight against her scalp again.

The girl studied her head with a thoughtful frown. “Your hair is funny. And your clothes are funny.”

“A lot of my vode have funny hair,” Harissa explained. “And almost all Jedi have funny clothes.”

“Why?”

Oh. That was a good one.

Harissa wasn’t quite sure how to answer it, so she stalled. “Why the funny hair, or why the funny clothes?”

“Both.”

A dozen little faces waited expectantly for an answer.

“Well...” Harissa’s mind scrambled. “We have funny hair because we like it. Because we think it helps show who we are inside.”

“You’re funny inside?” the girl clarified.

“You could say that. The truth is, _everyone_ is funny inside. They’re just funny in different ways.”

“And the clothes?”

_Why do Jedi wear robes?_

_I chose them because they were convenient and traditional, but..._

Someone, somewhere in the murky past, had started the trend that would one day become tradition.

Truth was, Harissa had no idea what that story might be.

_Maybe I’ll ask Defo next time I’m at the Temple. He might know._

_“_ Right now? I wear these clothes because that’s what I have.”

The girl’s frown deepened. “You don’t have other clothes?”

“No. I have one more pair of leggings, another tunic, and a big cloak, and that’s it.”

“You’re lying.”

The kid’s accusation took Harissa a bit by surprise. “I’m not, actually,” Harissa countered.

“But you have a ship, and a droid,” the Zabrak boy pointed out.

Harissa shrugged. “They’re not mine. I’m borrowing them.”

“You must own _something_ ,” the girl insisted.

“Sure.” Harissa unhooked her saber from her belt. “I own my lightsaber, and I own the beads in my hair.”

For a long moment there was silence, and then the girl prompted, “ _And_?”

“And nothing. That’s it.”

The girl’s eyes widened in surprised disgust. “You’re funny all over,” she mocked, and then ran off.

Harissa stared after her in astonishment as a couple of the kids stuck their tongues out at the Padawan, and raced off to follow the girl.

“Huh,” was all she could manage to say. _I think I just got bullied by a little kid._

“Don’t mind Abi,” the Rodian advised. “She’s mean. _We_ like you.”

The Zabrak moved closer. “Yeah. And I don’t think she’d be brave enough to cut off half of her hair.”

Harissa had _no_ idea what to say to that.

The familiar, beautiful rumble of the gunships caught her attention, drew her to her feet like a magnet.

_They’re coming._

Her comlink lit up. “Commander? Where do we set ’em down?” Ah. That would be Target.

Harissa joined with Tontuns in clearing the streets and waving the gunships to rest.

Clones climbed from the cockpits, trying to not look as exhausted as they felt. They gathered in a loose circle with Harissa, definitely aware of civvie eyes on them.

“What’s the plan, Commander?” Nearmiss asked.

“We’re not going to be here long, so we’re not setting up the base. There is an open space between the forest and village.” Harissa pointed. “We’ll be staying there. We’ll get in a few hours sleep, then move out.”

Tired heads nodded to let her know they’d understood.

Snicker pulled his helmet from his head. “I vote we get out there before the others show up. That way we can pick the most comfortable grass clumps.”

Somehow, his humor pulled laughter from his beaten brothers.

“Sounds good,” Harissa offered when they looked to her for approval.

They strode down the street, and Harissa waved at the wide-eyed children who watched them pass.

It seemed to cause the kids an inordinate amount of thrill.

And then they recoiled, uncertainty or outright fear melting their expressions.

Harissa glanced over her shoulder and discovered the cause.

“Snide!” she hissed. “Be friendly!”

He glowered at her, a look only slightly less baleful than the ones he’d been aiming at the younglings. “Why? Is this a public relations parade?”

Snicker elbowed him. “They’re just kids, Snide. You’re looking at them like you look at Seppies.”

“Yeah, and _you’re_ grinning like your _one_ of them,” Snide scowled back at his brother.

Snicker smirked. “Like one of who? Clanker or a kid?”

“Both,” grumbled Snide.

Target groaned. “ _Snide_! Would you _stop_?”

“Yeah, Snide.” Snicker elbowed him again.

Nearmiss hurried so he could walk beside Harissa, as far away from the bickering duo as possible. “And before you ask, Commander, yes. They were like this from the moment they left the growth jars.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she returned, eyes and tone innocent.

Telep, walking behind her, moved close so he could murmur, “But you were _thinking_ it.”

Harissa couldn’t help her smile, though she looked straight ahead to try to minimize its visibility. “I’d noticed their... togetherness.”

“They tried pairing them with others for the gunships, but it didn’t work. They’re the only ones who can stand each other.” Nearmiss sounded rueful, but Harissa could sense his affection for the two, lurking behind the ever-present aggravation.

“Complain about your own shipmate,” Snide growled.

“Don’t worry,” Harissa called out to the kids. “He won’t bite.”

“Put your bucket back on.” Snicker snatched it from Snide’s arms and tried to put it over his head. “That way they don’t have to be scared by your ugly face.”

“That’s enough,” Harissa murmured. Immediately, her heart skipped a beat and she felt a mixture of fear and embarrassment. Did she really have the right to call that shot? Had she earned it? She’d just given them an order. How had that happened? It had just slipped out. She’d never given orders to anyone before in her _life_. Where had that brazen confidence come from? Maybe she should have just—

“Yes, Commander,” two voices came back, utterly professional, and followed immediately by silence.

_Apparently_ they _think you do have that right._

Harissa still couldn’t understand where her confidence had come from. It had felt natural and right until she’d _noticed_ it. That’s when things got awkward.

She caught sight of her shadow across the hard-packed dirt.

Tall.

_Straight_.

Straight?

She focused on her posture and realized she held her head up. Her shoulders back.

_I’m walking like I_ own _the place_ , she realized in a panic, shoulders curling forward again to compensate for her height, and her head ducking so she wouldn’t have to look anyone in the eye.

_What are you doing? Walking around like some normal Padawan? Like a hero? Death follows you around, claims your masters. Are you_ asking _for it to strike again, to remind you of your place?_

“What’s wrong?” Nearmiss’ question was low, probably low enough that only Harissa and the still-close Telep could hear it.

Harissa bit the inside of her lip. Of _course_ he’d noticed. “What do you mean?” she prevaricated.

Nearmiss took a half-step closer to her as they kept walking. “You completely deflated. _Something_ is wrong.”

“She’s second-guessing herself,” Telep whispered. “That was her first command.”

Harissa couldn’t keep the exasperation from her face and voice. “You’ve been keeping track?” She meant the _you_ in the plural sense.

“What do you mean, keeping track? _Nobody_ has heard an order from you, so the conclusion is obvious. Never happened before plus happened equals first.”

“Why are all of you so observant?” Harissa hissed.

Nearmiss frowned. “Because if you’re not observant, you die.”

How could she feel threatened in the face of such innocence?

“You do realize you are the commander, not the mascot?”

A new voice. Harissa glanced over her shoulder again, tentatively identified Sleek, Target’s copilot.

She also discovered that it wasn’t just two that had drawn closer to her, but all eight of them.

_That may be so, but apparently I’m the most interesting thing that’s happened in a long time. You keep analyzing me. Watching my every eyeblink. I’m not used to living under such scrutiny._

For a long moment they walked in silence. They cleared the village and started into the open grassland.

They’d moved a few meters into it when Harissa’s feet signaled they were just _done_. She sat down to wait for her master and the rest of the 337th.

The pilots dropped down around her, helmets clunking on the ground, quiet groans of relief escaping as they lay flat on their backs.

“I love my gunship, but she can be harsh on the mortal frame,” Fixit announced.

Harissa glanced over at him. _Mortal frame?_ “Are you friends with Ned by any chance?”

“Inseperable,” Counter mumbled, eyes closed and every muscle relaxed.

Harissa checked to make sure all clone eyes were shut before she raised her head again.

_I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired of hiding._

She stretched her shoulders backwards, matching her posture to that of the other Jedi.

Relaxed. Confident. Unapologetic, but humble.

_Can I be all those things?_

She’d been slipping into them by accident. Alongside the clones and her master, patterns she’d been bound to for years were slowly releasing.

_And I didn’t even notice._

_But it’s not a bad thing. It_ can’t _be a bad thing. So why do I feel guilty?_

The names of her former masters whispered through her mind.

_It feels like betrayal._

_Master Di is offering me life instead of existence. But they don’t have anything anymore. Both life_ and _existence were stripped from them. Without mercy, without recall. And no matter how you’re trying to escape it, you_ know _it was you. Somehow. What right do you have to take Master Di’s gift when_ they _are gone, and_ he’s _next?_

Harissa’s shoulders slumped again. Her head bowed.

Who was going to remember them if she didn’t?

Her body, her soul bore their mark. It was all that was left of them.

“Don’t, Commander.”

Harissa started, turned to find Nearmiss looking up at her. “What?”

“Don’t go back. You like who you’re turning into. It doesn’t take Telepath to see it.”

Harissa couldn’t keep looking him in the eye. She dropped her gaze to her hands. “There are... people. And I don’t want to forget them.”

“You’ve found ways to remember Skid and the villages without letting it hold you back.”

Harissa felt the press of beads and armor.

_But you don’t understand._ I’m _responsible. It’s_ my _fault. And I’m a ticking time bomb._

“Commander?”

Harissa forced herself to look at him again.

“We like who you’re turning into as well.”

Harissa’s throat closed and her face froze into a mask, but Nearmiss wasn’t done. “You’re sort of walking proof that bad things don’t have to take you down.”

She _wanted_ to ask if he had any idea how many loved ones she’d lost, and just how badly it had hurt.

_But his body count may be higher than mine._

_They won’t be his fault_ , her mind argued back.

_Maybe. Or maybe he made mistakes. Wasn’t there when he could have been. Was a moment too late. Maybe he feels them just as keenly as you, and feels just as responsible. What right have you to ask him that awful question? Do you think you’re the only one here who has suffered? You’re not even the_ youngest _here to have endured that kind of loss._

“If I get confident, I’ll get careless.” _And I’ll miss my chance to save Master Di._

“Do you think General Di is careless?”

No.

No. He was anything _but_.

_But it’s not going to be enough..._

“Why are you so reluctant to believe in yourself?” Telep asked.

Harissa sighed. “Because I’ve failed too many times, and half of them, I’m not even sure how I could have fixed it.”

“You do realize you’re completely alone in that,” Nearmiss pointed out. “The General believes in you. The entire Three-Thirty-Seventh believes in you. Kessel, even the Captain believes in you now. You’re the only one who doesn’t.”

“Not just that.” Sleek spoke up before Harissa could reply. “You helped Ced believe in _himself_. I’ve never seen him so hopeful before. You don’t hear him glooming about impending doom anymore. You just don’t.”

Harissa watched as the first rows of the 337th cleared the treeline.

The sips of _life_ she’d been drinking in their company were so sweet. They burned at the same time. There was pain, grief; but turning away from living didn’t save her from those.

Her gaze found her master.

A beautiful person.

A Jedi in the truest sense of the word.

She stood to go meet him. Corrected her posture one more time.

Felt the eight pleased clones around her.

_Why do you care so much?_ she wondered, of them, of herself. Of her master.

She could see the bonds in the Force, the beautiful web of compassion and care. The 337th glowed with it. The light of it lit up the Force. Drove the darkness to heel.

_I want to be worthy of it. I just don’t know if I can._

Somehow, she thought that if she asked Ima-Gun, he wouldn’t think it _was_ a matter of worthiness.

Watching the line of men in white, the fading rays of the sun glinting off their armor, she couldn’t help but feel the truth of it.

Ima-Gun Di wasn’t driving them to be _worthy_ of anything.

He was simply nurturing them towards self-discovery, and being true to whoever that ended up being.

She thought of the painting in the Temple.

_Can I find peace with my beast? Can I make something beautiful, coming from_ all _parts of me? Those I like and those I’m afraid of and don’t understand?_

_It’s worth a try. And another. And another._

She would find some other way to memorialize those she’d lost.

But she wouldn’t hold on to her brokenness for them.

Her vode were right.

_And do you really think your masters would want you to? No. They would want you to live._

It felt like letting go.

And letting go allowed her to enjoy the smile Keeli sent her. The link she had with Ima-Gun.

The way Threetu sought her out, ostensibly so he could see her new bead.

Setting camp was simply a matter of appointing sentries in rotation rosters for the four ships and pickets for the village and small grassland.

The men spread blankets, settled themselves down to chat, clean their blasters or armor, and relax.

Harissa placed the blanket given her down near her master’s.

She caught sight of Bandage wending his way towards her. He tapped at his shoulder and forearm. “Commander.”

She sat on the blanket in surrender. “Let me guess. Let’s have a look at it?”

“How could you tell?” he asked, the corners of his eyes crinkling with smile-lines.

“You say it a lot, don’t you.” She held out her right arm to him.

He sat beside her, placing supplies on the blanket. “I’m told I do, but it’s never been proven. Now. Are you wearing something underneath that?”

“Technically yes?”

“Then will you please take off armor and tunic, and we’ll have a look at that arm.”

“Can’t I just push my sleeve up?”

He eyed the garment. “Not so I can see your shoulder well enough. You’re abusing those wounds routinely, and we need to make sure they’re not getting infected. Besides, you’re going to need to mend the tunic, aren’t you? And, if I’m not mistaken, the other one? And your cloak?”

Harissa felt her pulse beginning to pound in her ears. It was true. She couldn’t put it off any longer. “I’m going to mend them one at a time.”

Bandage didn’t seem to understand. “I assume you _don’t_ want me cutting this sleeve like I did the other? You seemed upset about that. Why are you hesitating?”

“I’m only wearing _smallclothes_.”

But that didn’t bring any understanding to his face. After a long moment he prompted, “So?”

“So there’s people around.”

Bandage tried to comprehend her point. He really did. Harissa could almost see the gears in his mind turning. “You see them in their bodygloves all the time.”

“That’s _different_.”

He did _not_ look convinced. “No, it’s not. And you know it’s not. I don’t care how you make that arm available to me, but you _will_ figure out some method. I want unrestricted access to both the burn and the punctures.” He stood to leave. “I’ll be back in fifteen standard minutes.”

Harissa watched him leave in shock.

Was privacy really _that_ difficult a concept?

_Jedi aren’t shy of their bodies_ , years of training reminded her.

The fact remained that she had never been comfortable like that.

She glanced down at her leggings. Torn. Badly torn.

_Fifteen minutes._

Well... she could wrap herself in her cloak until she’d mended leggings and a tunic.

Yes.

She retrieved them from the fighter, returned to her place.

Glancing around, she realized nobody was paying attention to her. They were focused on their own tasks.

_Maybe it’s time to relax._

A moment of contemplation later, she wrapped her cloak around her.

_Nope. Time enough for that later._

It was tricky to climb out of her clothes while under the cloak, but it certainly gave her peace of mind.

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

Sitting down, Harissa shrugged her right shoulder out of the protective cloak, trying to keep the dark brown cloth as tucked around herself as possible.

Moments later, Bandage reappeared.

He didn’t take note of her obedience. He’d just assumed she would give it.

_You really do outrank everyone, don’t you_ , Harissa mused.

He unwrapped her wounds, made unhappy noises, and proceeded with hypos, cleansing cloths, and who knew what else. Harissa was focusing instead on fishing thread needle out of one of the pouches on her belt.

_Thank you, Master Temma._

Ced walked over, his fist closed around something small. “Jesp sent this for you.”

Harissa wasn’t about to let go of her cloak with her free hand, so she nodded at the blanket. “You can set it there.”

She found herself looking at a gray bead.

“It’s Xertu’s color,” Ced explained.

Harissa squinted up at him. “But I haven’t been to Xertu.”

“No, but I told her about the project, and they wanted to help.” He practically beamed pride for his sweetheart and her village.

Harissa shook her head. “I don’t understand. When did you tell her about the beads?”

“When I replied to her letter. I dropped it off at the Li’s before we left.”

_They didn’t say anything to me_ , was Harissa’s first thought. The second was, _why should they?_

“And her response was waiting for me here. They were able to guess our next stop by our trajectory, so it was passed on to here, and the Tontuns have been waiting for us.”

_That explains the welcome I received. They’d already decided on a course of action._

“She also sent a message for you.”

Harissa accepted the flimsi in surprise. “Me?”

Ced gave a nod, and hastened off to where Kenn was frantically waving him over.

Harissa dropped her gaze to the note.

_Commander Nol,_

_Ced told me that you are the only reason he had the courage to write to me. You haven’t fought on our turf, but you’ve made my life brighter all the same, so please accept this bead as a token of my gratitude, and that of my family and friends._

_If you’re ever in need of help, I’m here for the asking. I can never thank you enough._

_Yours,_

_Jesp._

Harissa stared at the flimsi for a long moment, and then down at the bead.

She’d received two new possessions to add to her growing collection.

Bandage patted her hand, collected his supplies, and moved on. Harissa barely noticed.

There was so much strangeness represented here. Civilian care for a Jedi. _For me_.

And Ced had sent a letter without input from the padawan. Once again, she marveled at the confidence that came so quickly to the clones. Built to succeed, trained to adapt, Harissa had no doubts that they would find their way after the war.

She wasn’t quite sure which feeling was uppermost. Pride that Ced was growing up, or regret that all too soon the clones were going to lose the last shreds of childhood.

She’d heard that was what masters felt of their padawans.

Even more vague rumors suggested that it might be what parents felt for their children.

She accepted the stinging happiness and took advantage of her current solitude to lay her leggings and two tunics out in front of her.

From this vantage point, she could see they were in worse condition than she’d thought. She bit off a length of thread, strung it through the needle, and made sure the ends hung even.

Taking the tunic that seemed least destroyed, she turned it inside out, and pinched one of rips so the edges of the break were together. She slipped the needle through, knotted the the thread securely, and started placing tiny, even stitches into the fabric.

This was going to take quite a bit of time.

She considered using larger stitches, but with the brambles in the forests, that was _asking_ for them to get snagged and yanked out.

Settling in for a long evening, she tried to muffle her sigh and focus only on the work before her.

As the minutes passed, she became aware of wonderful smells. A gradual process, it had to completely take over her nose before she realized there had to be a _cause_.

Looking up, she found Tontuns moving about among the rows of blankets, large platters in their hands. _They’re_ feeding _us?_

Harissa’s mouth flooded. Real food?

A pair of clones wended their way towards her, bearing three bowls.

The web tattoo across the one’s face, and the regulation haircut of the other combined with the formal way he moved identified them for her.

“Web. Yessir.”

Their faces lit up and she could sense their surprise.

“You know our names, Sir?” Yessir asked.

Harissa smiled up at them. “Yes. And can I just say, I’m very glad you made it, Web.”

The trooper grinned, sat down, and held out the extra bowl to her.

“Thanks.” She accepted it, thrilled almost as much as the boys had been back at the Li homestead. Of course, there was also the relief of being able to drop tunic and needle for a legitimate break.

Web was already shoveling squares of meat into his mouth, but his brother stood at attention.

Harissa sent him a reassuring smile. “It’s okay to sit, Yessir. You can go ahead and eat.”

“We came to bring you dinner and to thank you for what you did for Web. Not to invade your privacy, Sir.”

Huh. A clone who actually knew that word. Harissa had just figured it had been omitted from the vocabulary they’d been taught.

“It’s not an invasion, Yessir. Web. You were sore the other day. I could feel it. Has it worked out?”

“For the most part. For the rest, I can’t tell if it’s the old or new from what we’ve been doing the last few days.” His smile was infectious.

Harissa treasured it and the relaxed confidence he exuded in the Force.

A familiar thrum in the Force caught her attention, and Harissa’s head turned in response. She caught sight of a clone walking before a large group of children. They were too far away to hear, but Harissa could sense their glee and laughter.

What she’d recognized was happiness from Mimic.

She watched as he transformed into what _had_ to be General Grievous.

Harissa suspected her eyes were sparkling, but didn’t care.

Around camp, Tontuns stood or sat with clones, talking, laughing, eating. Music wafted from somewhere, a combination of string and wind instruments, and voice.

_This has turned into a party._

“Web! There’s dancing!” A brother Harissa didn’t know by name charged towards them.

Web’s head swiveled and eagerness lit his eyes. “Commander.” He gave Harissa a hasty nod and bolted. Yessir drifted after him, relief evident in his face.

Harissa cleared the rest of her meal, set the bowl aside, and continued her mending.

At least she had an armor-plated reason to _not_ join in the dance.

She completed the first rip, moved on to the second.

_I can do this._

A shadow fell across her work.

_Who now?_

The Force-signature didn’t feel familiar. It didn’t even feel clone.

“Commander Nol?”

Looking up, she found a young man. Human, caramel-skinned, early twenties. Pink crescents marched up his forearms to his elbows, and one was carved into his chin.

Far more interesting was what he held in his hands.

A platter of pastries.

Fluffy, glazed with something, and _oh,_ the smell.

Harissa forced herself to _not_ look at the food. “Yes?”

“Dessert?”

“Oh yes,” was her instant response, taking one with relief. For a moment she held it before her nose and simply inhaled.

_How long will it be before I find something like this again?_

It could be weeks or months.

But for right now? She had a wonderful _something_ in her hands. And her master’s injunction to live in the moment.

“Thank you,” Harissa breathed. Her eyes opened to find a pair of intense blue ones watching her in amusement.

“Been a while?”

“Army rations are...” Harissa searched for a word that wouldn’t sound like a complaint. “Function first. And only.”

The Tontun laughed. “You are not what I expected.”

“What _did_ you expect?”

“A great, fearless warrior.”

Harissa snorted a laugh. “Where in _blazes_ did you get _that_ impression from?”

“Tales of your exploits are circulating.”

“Exploits?” she scoffed. “I haven’t _done_ anything yet except barely survive.” She nibbled at the corner of her prize. It tasted even better than it smelled.

“So how much is true?”

Harissa eyed him over the pastry. “Probably none of it.”

“I came to thank you for what you are doing for our planet, and I find you sewing and now basking in pastries.”

Harissa couldn’t quite read his tone or expression. Scanning him in the Force didn’t help. She had no idea whether he was disappointed or teasing her.

It was a relief when a familiar signature moved close. “Mom. You won’t believe these things. I brought you—”

Threetu rounded the last person in his way, found his commander already working on one of the “things” he found so enticing. That didn’t seem to bother him. He placed it next to the flimsi and bead on the blanket. “Now you have two.”

Harissa beamed at him. “Thanks.”

“It’s our job to take care of you.” He sat down and took another bite out of his own.

The Padawan frowned. “I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be the other way around—”

“ _Mom_?” the Tontun asked, and Harissa suddenly remembered his existence.

“What?” She looked up at him again.

The guy had a funny expression on his face, and again, Harissa couldn’t figure out its meaning. “He’s way older than you.”

“Actually, I’m three years younger,” Threetu countered.

Harissa shook her head. “Closer to two.”

The Tontun’s expression shifted to unmistakable shock and disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“No.” Harissa took another tiny mouthful of feathery bread. “And who are you again?”

His expression didn’t shift. “I didn’t say. But I’m Sarc.”

“Well, Sarc, thank you for this, and the thank you.” _I think._ Did _he actually thank me, or did he just say he’d_ intended _to before he found out what I am actually?_ To Threetu, she asked, “Where’s Blinder and Singe? I saw Mimic. He seems to be enjoying himself.”

“You bet he is,” Threetu agreed. “Some of the villagers challenged Blinder to see how accurate he can be. They’re setting up increasingly more difficult targets. They’ll be at it until Blinder’s told to stop. Singe is dancing.”

_That_ made Harissa happy. “Good for him.”

“You call them by _names_?”

Harissa hadn’t been sure she cared how Sarc viewed her. The belittling tone of his voice when he spoke of her _vode_? That was something _else_.

She glared up at him. “You have a name, don’t you?” she challenged.

“Yeah, well, I’m a _human_.”

Harissa’s glare hardened. “So are they. So am I. And my Master is a Nikto. What’s your point?”

“They’re clones.” His gaze raked Threetu, snapped back to Harissa’s face. “They’re all the _same_. By definition. Why bother with names?”

Maybe he was just ignorant. Maybe she could _help_. Taking a steadying breath, Harissa centered herself as best as she could. Calm...

There.

She’d found compassion for this blundering bumpkin.

It was time he realized the universe was much larger than himself.

“That is a common misconception,” she said gently. “But I live with them. I work alongside them. I know that Cards is reckless with his life and the rules, that Yessir follows them to the absolute letter. I know that Ced is in love, and that Web is grateful to be alive. Blinder isn’t just a sniper, he _loves_ being a sniper, and Singe is better than any Minder. I know Bandage takes his brothers’ health very seriously. I know that Snide is grumpy, and Threetu,” she gestured to him with her pastry, “is cheerful. Ned wants to be a writer once the war is over, and Sketch will have a brilliant career as an artist should he so choose.”

Sarc didn’t look convinced.

“What if I assumed that everyone in Tontu was exactly the same just because you all share pink tattoos?”

“It’s _melon_.” Sarc glared at her.

_Like Kessel it is. It’s light pink and you know it._

Sarc _actually_ put his nose a few centimeters higher in the air. “And they all look the same.”

“Only to those not paying attention.”

“You _bought_ them. They’re property. They don’t have a family; they’re just created by machinery and hatched out of growth tubes.”

Threetu was sitting with deceptive relaxation. His face clear, a total lack of concern in his eyes.

Harissa could feel the knot of trouble stirring inside him. The deep-set anger.

Or was that hers?

She was on her feet before she knew it. “They do have family. They have _us_ , and they have their brothers. That’s all _any_ of us needs.”

In this moment, Harissa loved her height. She had a full centimeter on him, and she could sense it annoyed him to have to look _up_ into her eyes.

She _didn’t_ sit back down.

“They’re just like the droids,” Sarc threw back. “You could swap out their innards. And your surgeons _do_ , don’t they? Don’t deny it.”

“Transplants often work between members of the same species. Or maybe your doctors haven’t gotten there yet.” Harissa’s eyes blazed with a nasty fire, her words quiet.

Threetu snickered.

Rage lit Sarc’s eyes. Harissa considered them, the young man’s fluffy hair, his tone and the way he felt now in the Force.

“Are you related to Abi by any chance?”

“She’s my sister.”

_Yes. That makes sense._

Harissa’s face must have revealed her thoughts to some extent, because Sarc snarled, “You’re not going to get the thanks you’re looking for. You’re not worthy of it.”

“Thank the _Force_ ,” Harissa breathed. “I’d rather be dead than someone _you_ could look up to.”

“You’re no better than _them_.” Sarc gestured to Threetu like he wasn’t present. “You’re basically an animal.”

“This from somebody who doesn’t know how to sew.”

Confusion spilled across his face. “What?”

“You acted like enjoying pastries and sewing are demeaning. That suggests to me that you simply don’t know _how_.”

“Why, you—”

“And, just so we’re clear, I’m _proud_ to stand with these men. It’s the first compliment you’ve given me. And can I also just say that you’re pathetic. And that even though that is the case, even though we have no respect for you whatsoever, these men that you mock will fight and bleed to keep you and your family safe _anyway_. So how about you go find someplace else to grouse about how you should be the only inhabitant of the galaxy?”

Sarc took a threatening step towards her.

“I really wouldn’t do that,” Threetu murmured, a delighted danger lurking in his eyes, and his body not quite so relaxed anymore.

Harissa could see and sense the attention being sent their way by clones all around them. Sarc _didn’t_ notice.

“Are you threatening _me_ , you cur?”

Threetu grinned. “Nope. You push the Commander too far, and I won’t have _time_ to get to you before she’s disemboweled you.”

Threetu’s words brought Harissa up cold as she saw a flicker of fear in Sarc’s eyes.

_You’re an ambassador. A Jedi. You can’t afford to just tear into people with words like that. You represent your Order. You represent the entire Republic._

And to allow Threetu to threaten bodily harm?

Threats were not the Jedi way. Certainly not threats of _harm_ for _slights_.

Sarc must have seen the wince in her eyes. His momentary lack of surety disappeared. “She wouldn’t have the guts.”

_Would I kill you for insulting me and everything I stand for and am? No._

But, _oh_ how she wanted to put him in his place. She wanted to wipe that smirk from his face. To make him limp home and have to work to hide the bruises for the next week.

_No, no_ , she told herself. _Aggression. No._

“You’re going to fight and die to protect us because it’s what _all_ of you were made for. Jedi and clone. And because you’re not _good_ enough for anything better. You think it’s some high calling. It’s what we task _massiffs_ to do. Protect their betters.”

Harissa’s fingers clenched into fists, her jaw locked, and her breathing deepened. She couldn’t respond to his taunt because it took every scrap of self control she possessed to not hurt him. So she just breathed.

_His words are worthless. His opinion is worthless. You are a Jedi. You have mastery of self, the only mastery that matters, and he_ cannot _goad you into something. The individual that can make you angry owns you. You owe him nothing, and he_ certainly _does not have the right to control you._

She thought of her master. Tried to feel the anger, tried to accept it—

“There. Good girl. Silence before your masters. That’s where you belong.”

Somehow, _somehow_ Harissa managed to not send him flying. The Force curled around her fingers, urging her fist to move. He didn’t deserve to claim the word _master_. That word was too sacred. Too beautiful.

The dark side whispered, urging her to teach him. The drawing of the Force was hard, so hard to resist, especially when her _own_ desires ran in that direction—

And then Sarc was on the ground, pastries flying every which-way, shock in his face and hand flying up to his bloodied nose.

Threetu stood beside Harissa, his body a coiled disaster waiting to spring, fist still clenched.

Sarc grunted a laugh. “Thought you said she’d defend _herself_.”

“She’s a Jedi, idiot,” Threetu murmured, his voice still quiet. “Pounding you is beneath her.”

“Aww, look at Mommy’s little boy. It hurts to see your Mommy submit, doesn’t it?”

_I’m_ not _submitting_ , Harissa’s fevered brain wanted to say through her lips. Her will refused it.

_I should try to talk Threetu down._

She knew she should. She should be the adult here, the Jedi. _And you really_ don’t _care about what Sarc thinks about you. You were totally indifferent until you became angry at what he’d said about the clones. Now? You’re just looking for an excuse to fight. You still don’t care. His opinion is still meaningless. To hurt him or allow Threetu to do so has nothing to do with hurt feelings. It has everything to do with giving in to anger and aggression. The hurtful words are simply excuses at this point._

She could hear the delight still going on around her. The village had turned out to feast them. Pamper them. Celebrate them. Show them they were appreciated. The _pink_ bead pressed against her head. A steady reminder.

_These people are worth fighting for. They are beautiful people, people who have welcomed us in a way they didn’t have to. This is just one person. One unkind, unhappy person. He’s not worth wrecking the party for._

And if this turned into a fight, it _would_ wreck the party. Her master and Captain Keeli would have to get involved. There would be an investigation into whether Threetu had adequate provocation.

The sense of joyful relaxation in the Force would go away.

_And my boys deserve an evening of enjoyment._

Harissa’s head drew back and the anger simmered down to something less explosive. She placed her hand on Threetu’s shoulder. “He’s not worth it. Not when there’s all these pastries to eat, just waiting to be picked up.”

A sparkle of surprise and admiration appeared in Threetu’s eyes as he looked at her. And then he bared his teeth in a smile. “You’re right, Mom.”

Harissa could feel Sarc’s annoyance. “You don’t get to have these!” he snarled, moving to reclaim those he’d dropped.

And that’s when Harissa’s self-control slipped just a bit. With a devilish grin, she called them in the Force. The _look_ on Sarc’s face as they flew away from him was priceless.

Ignoring him, Harissa plucked one of the pastries hovering before her out of suspension with her free hand and gave it to Threetu. She continued with the rest, tossing them to the clones who’d been covertly watching.

Delighted grins broke across their faces as they caught them, and she could feel their admiration.

It made her feel just a _little_ guilty.

They were amazed by her self-control.

_But... I_ haven’t  _been self-controlled._

Sarc scrambled to his feet, staring at her in wide-eyed shock, then looked around at the clones, who were chomping down on pastries and leering at him.

And then all they could see of him was his back and flying heels as he fled.

_I got in a verbal war, and then I used the Force to scare and thwart him. To prove I had power. And to get the last word. That’s not self-control. Mastery of self is the only mastery that matters. And... I did not master myself._

Suddenly she remembered she was standing and both hands hung by her sides. Glancing down at herself, she realized that her smallclothes were visible through the front of her cloak. Panic jolted through her mind and she wrapped the fabric around herself again, looking around at the men.

The clones seemed oblivious.

Considering Bandage’s response to her earlier...

Maybe they _did_ think it was normal.

_Sarc would have seen me too._

Though by that point he was terrified by her Force use.

With the remnants of anger still electrifying her bloodstream, she found she didn’t care.

_That may change by tomorrow._

Nothing she could do about it now. Technically she _could_ chase the boy down and Force-suggest him into forgetting what he’d seen.

The thought had barely whispered into existence before she slaughtered it.

For the love of the Force, what kind of a fantasy was _that_?

She was _not_ going to torment, terrify, and abuse a civvie like that.

Though the knowledge that she _could_ , if she wanted to, felt soothing.

_This is so messed up._

Harissa sat back down, resumed pushing needle through fabric.

The confrontation had melted away. The surrounding clones had already moved on, and the overall sense of the gathering retained its beauty.

Threetu still stood, watching everything around.

“You okay?” Harissa asked.

He looked down at her, the roll he held being slightly crushed by his tight grip. “He had no right to talk to you like that.”

“I didn’t get angry because of what he was saying about _me_ ,” Harissa pointed out. “It’s alright. I know who I am, and he can’t change who I am with his words. Not if I don’t let him. That’s all that matters. Besides, _you_ know who I am. Your brothers do. And since his words can’t change your opinions either, why should we care?”

“You cared when he was talking about us clones. It’s like that.”

She studied his earnest, troubled eyes and gave him a nod. “I know, Threetu.”

“Why don’t people understand? Why do they discount us?”

Harissa hated the hurt she could sense inside him. The rejection. The wonder if maybe there _was_ something wrong with himself and his brothers.

“No. No, Threetu,” she soothed. “Here. Sit down again. And sweets are meant to go in your mouth, not between your fingers.”

The clone glanced down at his fisted hand. He sat, staring at the misshapen dessert. “The Kaminoans. They treat us like animals. Like merchandise. Those of us they considered a shade less than perfect, died.” Threetu closed his eyes against the memory. “The brothers coming out of Kamino say Master Ti’s put a stop to it.” A faint smile brushed his lips. “Jedi to the rescue again.

“The bounty hunters hired to train us didn’t care either. Our skills meant money to them. That’s all. If we were slow, it angered them. It threatened their payday. If we were quick, they were happy. It meant secured credits. Then we were sent out. We just assumed the Jedi would be like the rest of them.”

For a long moment he was silent.

Harissa’s hands stilled and she waited.

“We had no idea.” His eyes opened, sought out her face. “It didn’t take us long with General Di to begin to think we’d been lucky. Very, very lucky. But we stay connected. We hear things. Word started coming in from brothers all over. Our general wasn’t the exception. He was the rule.”

Harissa’s heart squeezed as she saw the love for his general in his dark eyes. A fierce loyalty that nothing could break.

“We thought we’d been taught everything we needed to know about Jedi. They _said_ they’d told us everything. But they left out the most important part.”

This time, it was Harissa who had to look away. She aimed her unseeing gaze at the needle in her hand, and simply _felt_ the emotions flowing through her.

Anger at the Kaminoans and bounty hunters. Anger that they had treated these boys so clinically.

Adoration for her Order, and her fellow Jedi for being who they were.

Pride that she was counted one of them.

Humility because she knew she had so far to go before she would be anything like Master Di and the others.

Relief that the 337th was free of the Kaminoans. That they were close. That they answered to her master, someone who genuinely cared about them.

Shame for the rest of the “normal” galaxy, who looked down on these men.

“I know they did things to our heads to make us more compliant,” Threetu said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “We’ve been altered on a genetic level. Maybe it _does_ make us something less than the rest of you.”

That snapped Harissa’s head back up, and she dropped the needle so she could lay a hand on his arm. “No. _No_ , Threetu. It does _not_ make you less. Not in _any_ way.”

He met her gaze, and his uncertain, self-doubting expression broke her heart. “Something is wrong. We have nightmares.”

The admission seemed to be torn from his deepest depths. Harissa felt like she’d been made confidant to his worst fears.

_And maybe it is. I doubt the Kaminoans have much sympathy for the emotional and psychological damage that can come from war. PTSD may be a killing offense in their eyes. What would be more shocking is if you boys_ didn’t  _have nightmares._

So she met his fear-soaked glance with steady care. No compassion. Just intense calm. This man didn’t need to be pitied. He needed understanding.

“And we are manufactured like droids. Jango Fett practically _sold_ us.”

“You don’t see him as a father figure?” Harissa asked.

Scorn flooded Threetu’s eyes. “Would a father create children for money, only to have them sent off to be maimed and die in a war he didn’t believe in? Most of us are glad he’s dead. We don’t need _fathers_. We have our _generals_. That’s good enough for us.”

Harissa could respect his vehemence.

And the intensity with which they admired their generals.

Especially _this_ general.

_Of course, I might be biased. By a lot._

“How about we don’t grant Sarc the power to wreck the evening?” Harissa kept her voice gentle, and just a little bit rebellious. “What is it the Three-Thirty-Seventh says about people who don’t care about us having power over us?”

“Forget them,” Threetu returned, the shadows swift disappearing from his eyes, chased away by a defiant light.

Harissa grinned. “That’s what I thought. And I don’t think he’d have the guts to cut off half _his_ hair anyway.” Quoting the child from earlier cheered her heart. The kid had been on to something.

Threetu gave her a strange look as he started in on his pastry with relish.

Harissa’s fingers kept up their labor, sealing the second rip and moving to holes. She’d lived for months in the Temple with less damage than a mere couple of weeks out here.

Brothers came, brothers went— including Threetu. The happy bustle kept her company when the clones weren’t, and stitch by stitch Harissa worked her way through.

_I am_ not _putting this off again,_ she vowed. Any damage that happened in a day was getting _fixed_ that day.

_Exhaustion leads to procrastination. Procrastination leads to accumulation of mending to do. Accumulation of mending to do leads to suffering._

The playful twisting of a familiar principle brought a smile to her face.

_Finally_ her tunic was completed, and she put it on.

Next to resurrection: her leggings.

After that, solely because she hated the long cut Bandage had made in the sleeve of the other tunic, she worked on her cloak next.

She didn’t quite finish by the time the light had given out. Maybe it would be better to close that last rip tonight, but...

_I’m exhausted and I need rest. Tired fighters make mistakes. I need sleep._

Camp had quieted and several clones were already deeply asleep.

Harissa nodded to herself, replaced her bundle of thread and needle, tucked the gray bead and letter into the appropriate belt pouch, and ran her tunic and half a pastry back to her fighter.

When she curled up on her blanket, it took slumber but moments to claim her.

 


	22. Chapter 22

Screams jolted her awake.

Springing to her feet, Harissa found the camp in utter chaos.

She could actually _see_ droids in their midst.

_What the Kessel?_

She spotted Keeli, but _couldn’t_ see Ima-Gun. She drew and ignited her lightsaber, then tapped her comlink. “Master?”

“Harissa. Are you alright?”

“What’s happening?”

“I felt something amiss, went to check the pickets. Dead. Find Keeli and help him with the camp. I’m in the village now.”

“Yes, Master.”

Running to the captain, she demanded, “How can I help?”

The clones were pulling back into a protective formation, finding one another.

“We have to get to the village to protect the gunships. Have the mechs get the fighters off the ground!”

Harissa relayed the orders through her com to Neight and Artwelve. She received trilling confirmations, and then she was off at a sprint with clones towards Tontu.

The closer they got, the more light they had, provided by buildings in flames. Smoke blocked out the stars.

The place looked utterly different now as they charged into the main street. A few bodies lay about, but for the most part it looked utterly deserted, the doorways of the houses glowing red from the inside.

She could see her master and three clones, trying to hold the hordes back from the gunships. So few against so many. Panic flooded her.

She couldn’t be too late to reach them.

_Not_ this time.

Fear lent repulsors to her feet and she outdistanced her companions. She had almost reached him when the four rushed towards her.

“Back! Get back!” Ima-Gun yelled.

Harissa’s heels dug furrows in the dirt as she spun around.

Even so, the explosion threw her a good two meters.

Scrambling to her feet, her ears ringing, Harissa looked around for her master. She located him, deflecting blaster fire back to to the sources.

As for the gunships...

Four burning husks remained in their place.

The men formed a protective barrier around Ima-Gun as he worked his way to Keeli. Harissa followed close on his heels.

They drove the droids out of Tontu, out of the grassland, back through the trees. The end result was the droid army on the run, as fast as their metal feet could take them.

The clones headed back towards Tontu in the light of the rising sun. Almost to a man they were tired and seriously angry that the droids had gotten the drop on them. Also, a little smug. Even jolted out of sound sleep, attacked without warning, they had still sent the clankers packing.

Ima-Gun had ordered Bandage and his team to stay behind to help the Tontuns. As the clones approached the village, those left behind came out to meet them.

It didn’t make sense to Harissa’s sleep-deprived mind. Homes were still on fire. Shouldn’t they be helping put it out?

Bandage met Ima-Gun’s gaze and gravely shook his head.

_Wait. What? No._

Bandage couldn’t mean what that _looked_ like he meant.

Harissa broke away from the column and sprinted one more time into the heart of Tontu.

It was so quiet here.

There weren’t enough bodies. They _couldn’t_ all be dead. They had to have fled.

Harissa darted through the open doorway of the closest house.

The instant her feet crossed the threshold she knew she’d made a mistake in entering.

She could feel the death in this place.

Slowly, almost against her will, she picked her way across the charred floor.

She wanted to call out, to offer assistance.

She knew better.

Stepping into what was left of a large room, she found two bodies.

With a jolt, she realized she knew them.

Sarc. And behind him, Abi.

Harissa’s gut convulsed. Her mind somehow took in the blood, the gashes across the bodies.

Commando droids with their blades.

Speaking of blades.

Near Sarc’s limp hand lay a knife.

_He died trying to protect his little sister._

Harissa stumbled out of the house and barely made it to the street before she crashed to her knees.

This was why there weren’t any bodies out here.

They’d had no warning whatsoever. The droids had been quiet. They hadn’t used blasters. They’d swept through like a poisonous mist in the night.

She could feel it. The darkness coiling around this burning village, sinking its claws deep into every object present. Stains that would never be removed.

Dimly, she realized Keeli stood near her. “How did this happen?” she asked, looking up in a daze. “We were _in their backyard_.”

Helmet off, he looked down at her, grief and anger in his eyes. “They snuck up on the sentries. We lost almost all of them.”

“ _How_?” Harissa demanded. “Those men are better trained than _any_ in this galaxy. _How_ could _anything_ sneak up on them?”

Keeli’s jaw tightened, but he wasn’t angry with her. Instead, she could see her question reflected in his eyes. It was one he wanted to ask himself.

“Sometimes, even the best can fall. All the training in the universe can’t guarantee mission success or survival.”

Harissa wanted to fight back against the words. To assume something had gone _wrong_. That the pickets had made _mistakes_. Something, _anything_ other than that the droids had worked under a good plan.

A plan that had worked.

Harissa couldn’t get the image of Sarc’s glassy eyes out of her mind.

She hadn’t liked him. Had wanted to beat him up.

She hadn’t wanted him _dead._

She would have died to protect him, if it had come down to it.

_But I didn’t even get the chance to_ try _to save them._

Even though they’d been _so close_ , the Tontuns had died in their beds like the GAR was a star system away.

“Why did they hit the village first?” Harissa asked numbly. “And _how_ can there be _no survivors_? They should have hit _us_ first. They could have wiped more of us _out_ that way—”

Her master’s shadow fell across her. “It’s a warning, my Padawan.” His voice was gentle, but he refused to sugar-coat the truth for her. “They want the villages to stop helping us. To shun us.”

Harissa stared up at him in horror. “This happened because they were _kind to us_?”

He didn’t reply, only met her stricken gaze with his own grief-filled eyes.

Harissa let her eyelids fall closed and bowed her head.

She thought of the delight of the children in presenting her a bead. Of how they loved Mimic’s gift. Of the surprise dinner.

The pastries.

How she had called a young man pathetic. Had mocked him. And hours later, when no one was present to see it, he’d died trying to defend his sister against impossible odds.

He went after _commando_ droids with a _knife_. A regular old kitchen knife. No vibro setting, no electricity involved; just a shaft of metal.

Tears burned her eyes.

He’d been cruel. Unkind, to her vode and herself.

But _oh_ , how she wished she could have been there to defend him.

“How many did we lose?” she heard Ima-Gun ask Keeli.

Keeli’s response was quiet and grim. “We’re in the middle of a roll-call. We’re counting everyone missing from that as dead or wounded.”

“Rough estimation?”

Keeli hissed softly between his teeth. “Half the pickets. Everyone with the gunships except the four you rescued. Adding those to the men who died in their sleep or as they tried to adjust... I’m going to say anywhere between thirty-five and half a hundred. If we’re lucky.”

His words rang in the hollowness of Harissa’s heart.

Fifty men dead if they were _lucky_.

_More if we’re not._

So many clones, and an entire village, wiped from existence.

It was so hard to _take_.

Harissa moved through the day in a bit of a haze.

They collected the bodies. Villager and clone.

Building a massive pyre, they gave the murdered over to flame.

Fifty-three.

Fifty-three clones dead.

It was an utter disaster. Harissa could _see_ the impact it had made on the 337th. The thinning was actually visible this time.

They’d lost Zeroes. Nearmiss. Telepath.

The dead having been protected from the carrion fowl, the 337th moved out.

The clones weren’t just angry.

They were out for blood.

Harissa could understand their hate, their need for vengeance. Every time she felt the new bead on her head, with her hand or through the Force, it sent a jolt of anguish through her.

 

* * *

 

Ima-Gun led his men and his Padawan back into the forest as rain began to fall. It didn’t take long for mud to form.

The squish and tug at his boots brought back memories of the mission to Nal Hutta he and his master had taken when Ima-Gun had been a couple years older than Harissa’s own age.

The major difference being the temperature. Here, the obnoxious drizzle was cold. There, a murky heat.

He also hadn’t been anywhere near this tired.

_The enthusiasm of youth_ , he thought, his mental voice wry.

Harissa trudged beside him, a swirling cauldron of turmoil. She looked calm enough outwardly, but she wasn’t shielding her mind very well at the moment.

He sent her a calm pressure of reassurance over their Force connection.

She barely took notice of it. “How could this happen?” she demanded. “How could we _not_ feel this coming?”

“When the dark side is thick, it can be very difficult to sense specific intentions with accuracy. The danger sense is overloaded. Too many signals. Sometimes in the fog, all we receive are impressions of disaster, instead of specifics. And sometimes... the warnings can’t get through at all.”

“There’s no Sith here.” Harissa didn’t look at him, she simply stared ahead, cloak wrapped tightly around herself in a futile attempt to ward off the rain.

Ima-Gun sighed. “Not here on this planet, no. But as the galaxy wades deeper into war, they grow stronger. The conflict feeds them. The dark side’s influence is rising. Every death adds to its pall.”

“Then we’re _feeding_ the Sith by fighting. We should just stop. Refuse to fight anymore. That’s the only way we’re going to defeat them.”

Ima-Gun felt just a little sick. “I cannot fault your logic, Harissa.”

He sensed more than saw his padawan’s shocked gaze lurching to his face. For a long moment she just stared at him.

And then she glanced over her shoulder at the men plodding behind them. Her hand swept up to touch the beads on her head.

Her shoulders drooped.

“Even if we step out, the Republic and Separatists will keep going at it. Won’t they.” Her words, only half framed as a question, dripped with despair.

Again, Ima-Gun didn’t reply.

He wanted his padawan to draw her own conclusions.

“We shouldn’t be fighting,” she fretted. “It’s not _right_. And we _definitely_ shouldn’t be in a _military_. We _learned_ that lesson a thousand years ago.”

_You’re right_ , he thought, but didn’t say.

“And _by_ fighting we’re helping the Sith take over. We’re _helping_ the dark side grow. But if we step aside, so many people are going to die. People we could have saved. People we’re sworn to protect.”

Ima-Gun hadn’t had to struggle with such soul-twisting questions at her age. Back when the Jedi could focus on their true calling. Peacekeeping. Mediation. Relief aid.

How he missed it.

If only they could get _back_ to it...

“Why didn’t we prevent the war?” Harissa blurted. “It’s our job to mediate, right? To help two conflicting sides settle with one another _without_ violence. We’re very good at it. So why didn’t we sort this out _before_ the Clone War began?”

“We tried.” The words brought back more memories. Months of effort. Months of trying desperately to keep sparks from igniting in the fuel-cell chamber.

Harissa scowled. “Then we did something wrong. We didn’t do it right. We should have tried _harder_.”

_Oh, Harissa_. She didn’t know, how _could_ she know, of the sleepless nights and desperate pleas? Of the Jedi who died trying to hold the galaxy together? Some of them close to him?

Ima-Gun’s soul ached.

They would have been glad to die, if the war had been averted because of it.

_But it came anyway, my friends._

He accepted the pain. Didn’t fight it.

“We obviously didn’t do our best, or this wouldn’t be happening. This is our fault somehow. It’s our job to keep the peace, and we didn’t.”

“We gave everything we had,” he said quietly.

Harissa huffed. “That’s obviously not true, because—”

“Sometimes we give our best, but the results don’t turn out how we hoped.” It hadn’t been an easy lesson for him to learn as a padawan. He didn’t expect it to be easier on his own.

“You don’t understand,” she argued, surprising him.

_She’s learning to own her opinions_. The observation brought the tiniest smile to his heart, even through the pain. She was growing. Fast.

This wasn’t the hunched, beaten child he’d taken on two weeks ago.

“It’s _simple_.” Harissa’s voice warmed to her argument. “We had a job. Keep the peace. Now there’s war. Obviously, we did something wrong.”

Ima-Gun accepted the aching in his feet and the growing throb in his head. It looked like physical pain was going to be a companion today. “I understand your heart’s desire to assign blame. It is natural to want to simplify life into fault assigned to various individuals. The Separatists do it; they say the Republic is corrupt because of the Senate. The Senate wants to blame the Separatists for the war. Everyone wants to blame the Jedi.” _Increasingly, for every_ thing.

Every time he turned around, they were being assigned responsibility for something new.

They were slowly being turned into the embodiment of all of what was wrong with the galaxy. Scapegoats. The perfect excuse, so no one had to take responsibility for their own actions.

_And when the galaxy can take no more and everything explodes, we will be offered up as the sacrifice. They will tear us apart._

They’d seen it, countless times over the millennia. A planet turning on a minority, blaming them for the misery around, and then hunting them to near extinction.

_Unless something changes, it’s our turn coming up next._

“Things don’t just happen,” Harissa argued. “You told me yourself that people need to take responsibility for what _they_ do, and don’t do. Jedi exist to protect peace and justice. We didn’t. We need to own it, and get _back_ to it. Right now, we’re headed _deeper_ into corruption. The Tontuns died because the dark side was too obscuring. We’re out here, day after day, making the dark side thicker. What are we doing? This is our fault. We can’t defeat the Sith by fighting!”

“Now you see why some Jedi refuse to be involved in the war. They either pretend it isn’t happening, and go about their daily lives, or follow around behind the battle lines, trying to pick up the pieces.”

“At least _they_ are following their consciences,” Harissa growled.

_Ah, my padawan._

“That is all one can ever do,” he murmured. “Honor one’s vows to protect in the best way you can find.”

Harissa’s anger wavered and he could sense her confusion.

She expected him to argue. Almost wanted him to.

She desired a fight.

The anger would help ease the pain and guilt.

_You must find another way to handle them, Harissa._

For several long minutes they strode in silence. Out of step. A cloud of stormy emotion surrounding the young human in the Force.

Ima-Gun didn’t know if she was stewing or thinking. If she was simply coming up with better ways to express her argument, they would come spewing out eventually.

If she was trying to pull back and look and the situation from a new angle...

That would be revealed in time too.

“Why aren’t you trying to change my mind?” was what Harissa finally asked.

“Because you’re right.” Ima-Gun met her confused gaze.

Harissa’s frown deepened. “Then why are we still leading this column?”

Ima-Gun tried to recall the exact words his own master had used. “It’s a black square. Yes. You can touch it. See it. Smell it. The truth of it is self-evident.”

“If what I said is a black square, then why are you ignoring it?”

“Because when I was a padawan, my master pulled the rug out from under me about squares. She dared me to take several steps back from mine. To step out of the knee-jerk emotional response range.”

“So you looked at it clinically,” Harissa growled. “It’s _still_ a black square. Or did you start going on about the absence of color?”

Ima-Gun felt her aggression, felt his own urge towards annoyance.

Accepted both.

Calm, he considered how to present his lesson. The last thing he wanted was to make Harissa feel that he saw her as a child, and that her opinions were therefore unreasoned and irrelevant.

“My square was very different from yours, about a completely different subject. What I discovered when I backed up, was the square had other things. Different things, but related, attached to it. It was a cube.”

Harissa’s hand twitched in irritation. “But it was still black,” she asserted. “Distance isn’t going to make a difference.”

“Oh, it was still black, but I discovered that was so because there was a light source. The darkness was a shadow. I also discovered that if you move the light source... the shadow moves. In some cases, it may lighten the shade cast on your square, or eliminate that shadow completely. Similar things happen if you move the cube.”

Harissa shook her head. “Right is right and wrong is wrong, Master. Why are you trying to tell me different?”

“What I’m telling you is that truth is complicated. Three-dimensional. No decision exists in a vacuum, just as no person is entirely cut off from others. Some cubes are black, and the shadows cast are meaningless. But sometimes, what we assume is black, is actually a shadow. The task before you is to determine whether your black square has more sides to it, and whether the shadow moves when you take them, and its surroundings, into consideration. If it proves to still be black, then I will help you in whatever direction your conscience takes you. If that’s leaving you with Bandage’s team during battles, fine. If that’s putting you in contact with Jedi who have pulled completely away from the war, then fine.”

The last of Harissa’s anger drained away from her. “You would do that?”

“Once you have considered your square from outside the emotional range around it, and determined what your path going forward should be, yes, my Padawan. That is my role as your teacher. To give you the tools you need to discover who you are. Not to turn you into a second me. However, while you must do what you believe is right, and while I will support you in that, in the meantime I need your attention and help. I can’t have you wavering on the battlefield. You may use as much of your free time as you need to wrestle with these questions, but when we’re on the clock, you must be fully present and fully at work.”

Harissa gave him an understanding nod. “That’s only reasonable. You need to know you can count on me.”

“I already know I can count on you.” He gave her a smile, and she sent him a cautious one in return.

“Is it alright if I think while we walk?”

“Yes; just be ready to switch into fighting mode if we’re ambushed.”

“Of course, Master.”

Silence descended once more.

Ima-Gun wished he could do _more_ for her, but this was a journey she had to take herself.

He could try to impress his own views on her soul, and they might stick.

_But the fact remains that I am fallible. I make mistakes. My perspectives on many things may be wrong, and I would never know._

The thought of losing her to the Jedi who stood aloof from the war hurt. Of course it did. Many of those Jedi had cruel tongues, and an arrogance that chafed. Many seemed to believe that honest differences in opinion were things of myth. If you didn’t agree with them, you were either deceived, stupid, or corrupt.

_They stand very close to their boxes indeed._

He would have to trust his padawan to not allow her vision to tunnel quite so far, even if she kept company with them.

He felt the tension within Harissa slowly ease as she tried to center herself.

He sensed the moment when her internal river began to flow unobstructed once again.

_May you find your way, my Padawan_.

 

* * *

 

Keeli, walking directly behind his Jedi, listened in absolute silence, careful to keep his internal reactions level.

Surprise, anger, confusion; even if they weren’t visible from without, they could be _sensed_.

The clones had quickly learned that if you didn’t want to draw attention to yourself, you had to learn to experience things with a quieter mind. It helped one hide intel from Force-using enemies.

His commander was struggling.

Personally, he was _convinced_ his commander’s black square was the most unreasonable assumption he’d ever heard. If the Jedi pulled out of this war, it would give the Seppies a huge advantage. Perhaps one the GAR couldn’t recover from.

If that was the case, soon it would be Dooku, a Sith, ruling the galaxy.

Just how, exactly, was that a positive thing for the light, or for anybody _else_ , for that matter?

He would have preferred it had Ima-Gun explained to his padawan why she was wrong so they could get on with it... but...

Keeli deeply respected the way his General nurtured the people around him. Ima-Gun was just giving Harissa what he’d given Keeli and his brothers.

_It might not be very immediate, but she’ll be utterly convinced of her viewpoints and know_ why _._

He just hoped, desperately, that his commander wouldn’t decide keeping her hands clean was more important than his brothers’ lives and futures. More important than the villagers represented by her beads.

_If you get too focused on being light, and forget the whole_ purpose _of it, helping and protecting people, doing whatever you can for them, what’s the point?_

His focus on concealing his thoughts waned in his frustration.

His skin prickled as Harissa slowly looked over her shoulder. The first time, it had been in response to her own thoughts.

This, definitely in response to _his_.

_They’re not telepathic_ , he reminded himself _. Just very keen._

Her gaze caught his.

He raised his chin, looked straight back at her.

He could understand her abandoning them for fear. For pain. For the fact that she was young.

To desert them because it seemed the noble thing to do?

That wasn’t something he could understand.

And if she did it, it wouldn’t be something he could forgive.

That kind of betrayal was a luxury. One _he_ couldn’t afford.

_You think I can just walk away from my brothers because I don’t believe in slavery? That Ced can walk away because he wants a family? If we have responsibilities and can’t run, why should_ you  _be able to leave us to die so_ you _can look spotless in your precious Force?_

Her expression morphed from questioning to uncertain. She turned her head to face forward again, but Keeli knew she felt his unbroken gaze boring into the back of her skull.

_I chose to trust you. Don’t make me regret it._

_If you want to go full pacifist after the war, fine. But don’t you dare, when I still have brothers out there that might_ live _if you’re on the field who will_ die _if you’re off meditating somewhere._

In that moment, Keeli wished Jedi _were_ telepathic.

 


	23. Chapter 23

 

They caught up to the droids.

Keeli’s brothers took out their rage and grief on metal bodies.

He saw, heard, almost _felt_ his commander fighting by his side. The doubts she’d been struggling with through the long march vanished. She was focused, completely focused on protecting him and his brothers.

One would never have guessed she hadn’t been on a battlefield all her life.

A droid deactivating machine, she moved with grace and precision.

Confidence.

Her hunched shoulders had squared. Pulled back.

It was an unconscious posture now. The silent apology long gone.

He heard her murmuring names. Recognized some of them. Felt the smile harden across his face underneath his helmet.

She knew what she was fighting for.

_Who_ she was fighting for.

His fear that she would reject his brothers after all fell beneath his feet, ground into the mud.

As the battle raged, he realized she was sticking close.

She had his back. Through the mud, through the fire, she was always right where he needed her to be. Anticipating, a step ahead of the droids.

The only people like that were his brothers and his Jedi.

_I have two Jedi._

 

* * *

 

Keeli’s waiting aggression had haunted Harissa’s steps all day.

It had almost felt like he was daring her to leave them.

As she slaughtered the first few droids, her spirit wavered. _Should_ she be doing this?

_Master Di asked me to be fully present in battle. I can’t break that trust_. Especially not when he was giving her the space and time she needed.

_Focus, Padawan!_

Her chiding did no good.

Each blow felt like a betrayal. Made her want to throw her lightsaber and scream.

She felt Skid’s armor pressing against her. Steady. Protective.

_Skid, what am I going to do?_

She thought of Singe’s response to her pushing. He fought to _protect_. He didn’t feel he had a choice.

“Threetu,” she murmured. “Singe. Blinder. Mimic.”

Her mind began to quiet.

She killed another two droids.

“Ned. Ced. Kenn.”

More death.

“Web. Yessir. Sevnine. Bandage. Keeli.”

Her hands and feet moved, flowing through the Force. Clanker upon clanker fell.

She kept Keeli close, using him as her anchor.

“Wek. Berri Li. Head Berri. Everyone in Kertu.”

Surety surged through her veins.

“Xertu. Jesp. The love she and Ced share.”

In this place, Harissa couldn’t fathom stepping out. Her men were fighting for their lives in this moment, with every other living being on this planet as the stakes.

If _they_ didn’t die, they could live enslaved.

“Reltu. Even though they don’t believe in us. Head Rassid _himself_.”

She’d lost count of how many droids she’d cut down. She deflected their own fire into their chests, heads. Took out even more.

“ _Tontu_. To keep what happened to you from happening again. _Sarc_. You couldn’t defend your sister. I will defend _other_ sisters. As many sisters as I can.”

The Force flooding through her, she didn’t feel anger. Instead, her recitation of names had calmed her.

Determination and a promise to put them before herself steeled her resolve.

She could debate all day long what she should do to keep herself spotless.

_But this isn’t about me, is it? When I took my vows, I wasn’t vowing to focus on myself so I could be the best Jedi, to never make a wrong decision._

_I vowed to protect them. To serve._

She now understood her master’s choice to stay.

_My square doesn’t stand alone. It has billions of innocents bound to it. Waiting to see if I will piously step back to let them die, or to throw myself between them and harm. Waiting to see if I’m going to value myself more than I value them. Waiting to see if I will choose to be a Jedi, or a monk._

“Tinker. Worker.”

_Being a Jedi isn’t about right versus wrong. It’s about selflessness versus self-focus. Seeking the benefit of others before my own._

“Snicker. Snide.”

Berri the Elder’s words whispered through her mind. _“You may not be a knight yet, but when you wear our colors out on the field of battle, they’ll remind you who you’re fighting for. It’s not just an impersonal government. It’s us. The people hurt by Separatist aggression. When you doubt yourself, look at those beads. That’s our confidence in you. It’s time to believe in yourself.”_

“Level. Sleek. Master Di. He deserves to live to see the day when we can return to peacekeeping.”

Another decapitated enemy.

“I’m going to make _sure_ he reaches that time.”

Harissa sensed an incoming grenade and shot out her left hand. It flew away from Keeli and back into the horde.

That alone took out several.

“ _Skid._ I will defend your brothers since you can’t anymore. All Jedi everywhere, who have to make the choice every day between ideals and the death or enslavement of a galaxy.”

She slogged through the rest of the day, name after name giving her strength.

They spent the night in a protective circle of the AT-TEs and the shield they’d stolen from the Seppies. Constant, long-distance bombardment lit the night sky, splashing across the shields in flares of red and gold.

Harissa finished repairing her second tunic, and had to resolve tears that had formed today.

At least between the AT-TEs and the fire, there was plenty of light to see by.

So focused on trying to complete her task before the next assault, the padawan nearly missed the troopers who came for her.

She looked up to find the gunship pairs surrounding her.

Target and Sleek.

Snicker and Snide.

And the two who had lost their partners.

She thought of how Nearmiss and Telepath had reached out to her in her insecurity, and her eyes misted.

Fixit and Counter both held something.

Harissa blinked, and realized just what.

“This is Telepath’s,” Fixit said, kneeling beside his Commander and gesturing for her to give him her left arm.

Harissa obeyed, and felt the man’s care as he cinched the vambrace snug into place. She gave Telep’s copilot a grave nod in recognition.

And then it was Counter on her other side. Harissa set down her needle, extended her right hand.

“Nearmiss,” was all Counter could say through his grief.

And Harissa understood.

She felt the two braces against her arms as the clones stood and as a group saluted her.

Another slow head bow, this one to all of them, and then they were gone.

Harissa looked down at the white encasing her forearms.

They felt right.

A solemn trust.

_We miss you_ , she thought. _And we’re going to keep fighting for what you died trying to protect._

She completed her sewing, put away the needle, found her master and asked to be allowed to take one of the watches during the night.

When she wasn’t watching with her eyes and the Force, she slept with the armor on.

_I’d wondered who I am. What I’m supposed to do._

_This is who I am._

 

* * *

 

The next three days blurred together. Wet. Cold.

The white of armor almost completely obscured by mud.

Near-constant battles became difficult to distinguish; they all felt the same. Win or lose, it was always complicated.

Keeli could find pleasure in few things, but they were like beacons lighting the night.

There weren’t any civilians close enough to become casualties.

His brothers bore the hardships with courage and tenacity that made him want to explode with pride.

And the uglier the struggle turned, the brighter his commander blazed.

Tending the wounded and hovering by Bandage’s elbow in order to learn what she could of the craft; gaze keen and focused outwards as she took her place on watch; a force of destruction and focus on the battlefield; an agent of mercy, seeking out the wounded lying among the dead, sensing their location and bringing their brothers to their aid; sitting with his brothers in the exhausting wake of battle, simply aching together in silence; trying to repair her clothes in an evening, deft fingers drawing needle and thread through increasingly threadbare fabric.

She leaned over Ned as he wrote in his memoirs. She scratched swirling designs into the mud with sticks, connecting and intertwining them with those of his brothers.

She’d taken to sleeping in armor.

Clones took turns in helping her keep the side of her head shaved, and she helped with theirs.

Instead of remaining in comfortable circles of familiarity, Keeli both saw and heard of the way she sought out brothers she didn’t know. In spite of the exhaustion and pace they were setting, she somehow found the time to try to understand them.

Keeli’s brothers loved her.

Harissa looked at their general with almost as much reverence as they did. Keeli knew without the shadow of a doubt that she would give her life for Ima-Gun’s should the need arise.

Then again, he was becoming increasingly convinced she would make the same sacrifice for any one of his brothers, whether she knew them personally or not.

Keeli found himself appreciating her presence. Glad that she invested in his brothers.

 

* * *

 

It was the middle of the following day when Harissa’s right boot gave out. She couldn’t quite believe it.

_They’re trustworthy for years, and then seventeen days into New Draxis, they fall apart._

She fell back out of the battle, moving to where Bandage and his team worked.

She studied the boot, trying to figure out a quick way to keep it together so she could get back out into the fight.

Snagging strips of cloth, she tried binding them around the sole.

“Uh, _no_.”

Harissa looked up, found Tinker glaring down at her. “What?”

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he scowled. “ _Don’t_ do that. I don’t care how well you wrap and tie it, it _will_ come apart when you most need it to stay together. You’re not going back out there until you have new boots.”

Harissa blinked. “I don’t exactly have access at the moment.”

“There’s a reason we don’t wear leather.” Tinker shrugged. “I’m going to get Worker. We’ll fix you up. Until then, don’t move.”

“There’s a _battle_ to win,” Harissa protested.

Tinker shrugged. “If you cut your foot open on broken droids, we don’t have a bacta tank to dunk you in. It’ll take a _long_ time to heal. And you’ll be useless in the meantime.”

“Fine. But something needs to be done _soon_ or I can’t in good conscience stay out of it.”

“Deal.” Tinker zipped off.

Harissa finished wrapping her shoe to her foot and then tapped her comlink. “Master. My boot gave out. I’m back with Bandage, seeing what I can do to help.”

“Stay there, Harissa. Don’t come back out here.”

Harissa smiled at his automatic agreement with Tinker. “Yes, Master.” Within moments Bandage set her to work sticking hypos into necks and arms.

Harissa lost track of the footwear issue as their team was overloaded with the wounded being dragged in.

She found herself just a little overwhelmed by the response the severely wounded clones gave her.

Expressions of despair lifted when her face came into view, as though their chances of survival had just gone up. It made no sense to her, but she smiled in return, encouraging them to hold on. To fight.

After completing the rounds with the painkillers, Harissa found the medics still overworked. For a long moment she watched them.

Before Bandage could tend to a brother’s wounds, armor had to be removed. It took valuable moments away from Bandage as he did so, meaning the next brother had a longer wait.

_Maybe I can change that._

Upon request, Stichup showed her how to assist clones out of their armor.

With the worst cases, Harissa didn’t dare touch the armor, but for the rest?

Piles of muddied, bloodied white appeared at the feet of the wounded, allowing the medics to move faster from brother to brother.

Assisting in this work, where her only focus was on preserving life, felt perfect to Harissa. She went out on the battlefield to fight for what she believed in, but it wasn’t something she wanted to do.

_Now_ this _? This is the heart of being a Jedi. Helping the weak and wounded_. It felt unreservedly right.

Harissa realized the blasterfire had ended long ago only when the inflow of injured ceased. Moments after, her Master’s voice came across on open comm. “Listen up, men. This is a fairly defensible place, so we’re going to stay here for the night. Our scouts have discovered a village a few minutes’ walk away that wasn’t on the maps. We’re going to ignore it. Don’t go visit. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” murmured back countless voices, sounding like the gentle swell of an ocean.

Bandage set Harissa to clearing the assisted out. The worst cases would spend the night in the AT-TEs, the others she helped to their assigned places, spreading out blankets for them as she went.

It was when the last clone had been settled for the night that she saw Worker headed her way, carrying two of the knee-high boots he and his brothers wore.

Sitting on a large, uneven stone, Harissa felt relief as her weight shifted away from her feet.

It had been a long few days.

Worker held out his offering. “Here. I think they’ll fit now.”

Thanks to Stitchup, Harissa now knew how to take them _off_. Surely she could figure out how to put them _on_.

Harissa shed her worn-out boots, replacing them with the armored ones. She was surprised by how comfortable they were.

“I had to cobble them together.” He proceeded to list the fallen brothers’ names, tapping each piece as he went.

Harissa’s mind yelped.

The instant he left, she stared down at the boots.

Except for Zeroes, she hadn’t known any of those men. In fact, she hadn’t really known Zeroes, just _of_ him, from Head Berri.

_How will I ever remember?_

She glanced around, but no one seemed to be paying her any attention. Slipping the boots off again, she fished her marking pen out of her belt.

_Right knee guard._ She wrote Zeroes’ name on the inside.

Continuing with the others, she did the same, and then replaced the whole back against her lower legs. The labels were invisible from the outside, and at least now, when she went to put them on, she wouldn’t be haunted by forgetting _who_ she was supposed to be remembering.

Feeling just a bit smug, and _very_ pleased with finding yet another use for the marking pen’s existence, she repeated the procedure with vambraces and chest armor.

_No, I’m never going to forget Skid, but if we all die and someone_ else _who doesn’t know finds the armor, then they’ll know._

It felt right.

Harissa took her broken boots to her fighter, and Neight popped the hatch for her.

An intense, sweet smell accosted her, triggering her mouth to water.

She’d forgotten all about the half a pastry she’d stowed in there days ago.

It didn’t _smell_ bad...

She clunked her boots in, and pulled the pastry out.

It didn’t look bad either...

Wondering whether consuming it would be wise, and whether abandoning it was even possible, given the alluring smell, Harissa walked back to her place and spread her blanket.

Soon she was settled, stitching away at new rips in her battered clothes, the pastry sitting before her as she contemplated it.

“Are you going to eat that?” Threetu asked, dropping to sit beside her.

Harissa’s brow furrowed. “I’m thinking probably not.”

“Can I?”

Harissa’s eyebrows arched. “Do you want to risk it? It’s been sitting in my fighter for days now.”

Threetu shrugged and scooped it up. “Smells fine to me.” After a bite, a wide smile lit his face. “Tastes fine too.”

“You go for it, then.” Harissa could sense his low rumbling of contentment in the Force, and that brought a smile to _her_ face.

The bustle around them slowed, then finally fell quiet.

Finishing up her repairs, Harissa bade her master goodnight, and resigned herself to the damp, squishy ground.

 

* * *

 

Harissa had no idea what time it was when she was awakened. She found a clone leaning over her, a warning finger to his lips.

Taking the hint, she scrambled up and followed him.

It was too dark to identify him, so Harissa reached out with the Force.

Blinder.

He took her past the edge of camp, the sentry there giving them a nod.

The padawan wanted to ask what this was about, if in a whisper, but decided patience would be the more mature course of action.

They reached one of the outlier sentry pairs. Squinting, Harissa could make out three figures in the dark.

Three?

“Commander Nol?” a voice whispered.

_You’re no clone_. “Yes. And you are?”

“A friend. One chosen to represent our village. It’s better if I don’t reveal my name.”

“He presented himself, asking for you.”

Ah. One of the two on guard here was Sevnine.

_Thank the Force that you didn’t shoot first, ask questions later_ , Harissa mused. It had probably been difficult for him. “What is it you need from me?” she asked the villager.

“I came to bring you this.”

Harissa sensed no danger, so she extended her hand. A small round object dropped into her palm. Instantly, her gut sank. “I can’t accept this,” she murmured. “After what happened to Tontu, it’s not safe. I should take the others out of my hair too.”

“That’s the second part of my message.” She could sense the man’s intensity. “We’ve been in contact with the other villages, all except for Xertu.”

Harissa thought of Jesp and her people. Yes, they were a bit far away.

“The answer has been unanimous. They want you to keep the beads in. Except for Reltu. Head Rassid requested you not wear that one.”

Harissa smiled in the dark. “I understand. I’m still not sure it’s wise to endanger the villages this way, though. I can keep the beads in my fighter, where the droids can’t see them.”

“ _No_. It’s important. You’re the first military leader we’ve had identify with us. Ever. We’re tired of submitting to every army that comes our way. We deserve better than to be the doormat.”

“And what about when the droids come for your families?” Harissa asked. “The last thing I want is—”

“We’re not going to ask you to stay in our homes. We’re not going to come out in droves to greet you. But let us have this bit of defiance against the droids. Please, Commander. The beads may not seem like much, but—”

“It feels like you’re watching over me.” Harissa met his gaze as well as she could in the deep shadows. “They remind me what I’m fighting for. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Tontu.”

“It happens. We’ve never fought back before. We’ve just accepted it and raged against it when the invaders weren’t looking. Each village has come to its own conclusion on this. They want you to keep the beads.”

Harissa considered for a moment. She could feel the weight of the desire that had prompted the communication between the villages.

“I will. And you may tell Rassid that I will not allow the droids to see Reltu’s light blue.”

The relief and pleasure rolling off the man slammed into Harissa. He’d succeeded in his mission.

“Thank you, Commander.”

“No.” Harissa reached out to grip his shoulder. “Thank _you_. I will do everything I can to ease the suffering that comes down on New Draxan heads because of our presence. I just wish I could take it all away.”

“We know,” he said, and then he was disappearing deeper into the trees.

Before she returned to her bedroll, Harissa pulled the light blue bead from her hair by the light of Blinder’s headlamps and tucked it into her belt.

She found her master’s eyes open, and explained in low tones as she crawled back under her cloak. It seemed she’d managed to not disturb anyone except for him. She couldn’t help feeling a little accomplished at the feat, given how lightly most of the men slept.

Ima-Gun gave her a nod of understanding and his eyes drifted shut again.

For a long moment Harissa watched his face, sensing the gentle hum of his presence in the Force.

It was all the lullaby she needed to fall back to sleep.

 


	24. Chapter 24

 

It was the hail that finally did it.

Harissa’s tunic had survived a vehement disagreement with an opinionated brierpatch on their way out of the forest, multiple falls on sharp gravel as the landscape turned back into stone mountains, and a close encounter with fire.

What was there to be said? It had been a full day.

And then the clouds had let loose with hail.

_Not hail like_ I’ve _ever seen before_ , Harissa thought in disbelief, crouched beneath an AT-TE.

It had actually driven the battling droids and clones apart, sending both armies for what cover they could find.

For the GAR, that meant cramming as many bodies _into_ the AT-TEs as possible, and stowing the rest _beneath_ them.

The tree cover was too far behind them for retreat.

The flakes of ice hurtling from the sky were so thin and light they followed every eddie of the temperamental wind. They blew sideways as much as down, scraping across the undersides of the AT-TEs, drawing shrieks from the metal.

Harissa buried her face in her forearms, back to the outside, and felt the stunned disbelief of the clones around her.

_This obviously hasn’t happened to you before._

Natural shrapnel broke as it struck living bodies, but it left welts, severe bruising, and if it wasn’t the flat of the flakes but one of the razor edges, thin cuts opened up.

Harissa’s clothes, where they weren’t covered by armor, hung in shreds. Her skin didn’t feel much better.

More shocking to the padawan, the hail cut through the clones’ seals, drawing blood from between the joints in their armor.

How had none of the New Draxans _mentioned_ this? _Welcome to our planet, and oh, by the way, we have storms that will cut you to ribbons. Maybe you’ll want to learn to read the weather and not get caught out in it._

Shivering in the wet, Harissa steeled her mind against the shards that struck her back. Oh, they hurt.

Harissa had never been struck with a whip. _But I think this may be what it’s like._

“Get the Commander further in!”

She was too wet and freezing to check to see who’d said it. Next thing she knew, hands on her elbows, shoulders and knees guided her through the carefully-shuffling press until she was surrounded by men in armor.

_Protecting me again_ , she mused.

It didn’t stop the hail from finding her, but it gave her a better chance of escaping it.

There wasn’t room to move, so she crouched in her new place, trying to keep from sitting in the mud, trying to conserve what body heat remained, trying to hide beneath the lethal ice that came flying through above their heads and across their shoulders like the AT-TE didn’t exist.

Harissa could sense the wind currents, but she couldn’t predict them. Not well enough to deflect more than a third of the flakes speeding towards her with her blade.

Even if she’d wanted to face down the storm, she couldn’t.

At least the AT-TEs protected them from what was plummeting straight down.

_And at least the wounded are_ inside _._

If she could just use the Force to create a bubble around the tank, maybe she could shelter the brothers around her. It wouldn’t help the whole 337th, but maybe it would help those _here_.

Harissa closed her eyes, reached out to the Force.

She wasn’t prepared for what struck her right between the eyes.

The pain. The shock that somehow _ice_ , thin as flimsiplast, was defeating their armor.

The fear.

She knew they had lost men before everyone had reached some form of shelter.

They didn’t know who.

The helplessness, and the rage. They hadn’t been trained for this. They were meant to be sent against enemies they could _fight_ , not forces they just had to _wait out_.

Harissa tried to ignore the badgering the Force was giving her, fought desperately for focus.

She was shivering, partly from the cold, partly from the muscle fatigue and pain. Blood slid down her skin, another distracting sensation.

She tried to create a bubble around herself, and almost thought she had succeeded, when a glancing blow to the shoulder told her she _hadn’t_.

_I can’t even shield myself, let alone them._

That hurt. It was disconcerting.

_If I can’t use the Force, what good am I?_

Fear stared Harissa in the face. Fear for herself. For her men.

_Accept it. Accept it. Accept it. I’m scared. I feel helpless, and it’s awful, and that’s okay. Just feel it—_

The AT-TE groaned above her as the winds abused it. _Hold, please hold_ , she begged.

Images of it collapsing and crushing her and the men flooded her mind. What if she couldn’t focus enough to catch it? What if she _did_ catch it, but the storm lasted hours and she ended up unable to hold it that long?

That was bad enough.

Worse, the image replayed, but with whatever tank her _master_ hid beneath.

The urge to run to him, to find him, to protect him _somehow_ made sitting on her heels agony.

_You can’t go out there. And if you did, there’s nothing you can do that he_ couldn’t _and_ won’t _._

Harissa grit her teeth.

Once again she touched the Force, steeled against the inflood of negativity that followed. She reached out for Ima-Gun, a wordless plea.

Her mind brushed against his, and the older Jedi’s responded. A gentle pressure. Reassuring. Calming.

So Harissa ducked her head and held on.

_We just have to outlast it._

Perhaps the clones hadn’t been trained for this, but in a sense, Harissa _had_.

_I think this is close enough to torture to count._

The Force was too painful a hiding place at the moment, so instead of spreading herself on its vastness, she narrowed in on the immediate.

She knew her smallclothes were showing, but she was far too miserable to care. The likelihood that no matter how cleverly she worked, she wouldn’t be able to repair this tunic was also something she couldn’t feel right now.

She saw her blood dripping to mingle with the mud. Wondered how the boys on the outside of the protective huddle were faring. Knew she didn’t dare open herself back up to the Force to find out. Not since she couldn’t do anything.

She could feel the movement as clones carefully switched places, taking turns on the outer edge, like a flock of black and white icebirds.

The noise physically hurt. The padawan put her hands over her ears and hoped for the storm’s end. How long could its violence last?

None of these things were small enough. Harissa forced herself to look more closely.

A tiny patch of fabric on her thigh.

A centimeter square.

She studied the weave of the fabric. The exact placement of the threads that created it.

She picked one.

Studied it closer.

How it wasn’t perfectly smooth, but like most natural threads had infinite mountains and valleys within it.

Harissa didn’t notice the moment when she tapped into the Force again, but she knew she must have, because now she _felt_ that one thread’s placement in the garment, felt its texture, saw it more clearly than her human eyes could.

Time slowed, became meaningless.

She considered the subtle variations in color.

The way the thread had been formed of fibers twisted together.

Its flexibility, its shape—

A drop of water struck it, and she watched how it sucked the liquid in.

How the color shifted. How the diameter swelled just a little.

How it dissolved.

Harissa frowned and considered it more closely.

The water... was _eating away_ at the thread.

It didn’t have the speed or visibility of acid, but it was breaking down the strength of the individual fibers. Leaching away the body of the thread, leaving it weakened and brittle.

_Is there an enzyme in the rainwater?_ Harissa wondered. _A microorganism? Something slightly caustic that isn’t harsh enough for my skin to recognize?_

At least now she understood why her boots had fallen apart.

_It’s not rotting... it’s just... draining away._

Like color being washed out of a painting fallen in an ocean.

Two hours in, someone started singing Vode An.

Often, Harissa couldn’t hear their voices over the roar of the winds, but she could always feel the rumble of them.

She joined in, because there was nothing _else_ to do to pass the time and take her mind off the misery and frustration that the planet was trying to make life more complicated by consuming her clothes.

Focusing on the shared glory of song, the clones’ grip on anger and fear loosened.

It allowed Harissa to open herself to the Force without a beating, and focusing on the words and their meaning drew her out of herself. Instead of looking at the misery, she concentrated on making her voice blend with the others’, on the harmonies they used, on how they looked in the Force as they sang.

She felt Ima-Gun reach out to her and study her, as if trying to discover what had brought about the change.

And then the dark turbulence in the Force lessened just a little... and then completely. Harissa saw her comlink signal, but couldn’t hear what had been said.

The small supernova spilling through the Force suggested that her master had alerted the rest of the men to the singing idea.

Harissa let her eyes fall shut.

She’d never been more physically miserable in her life.

And yet...

A fierce glorying had captured her mind.

As long as she had these men surrounding her and her master close by, she could endure _anything_. The worst that nature and fate could throw at her, they would weather.

Together.

Hours dragged past, and Harissa drew strength from the clones as she knew they drew it from one another.

When the storm finally began to lessen, Harissa couldn’t quite believe it. She’d known better, of course, but it had felt like it might last forever.

They didn’t wait for it to completely vanish before clones spilled out from under AT-TEs, patience exhausted.

A few voices cheered their defiance at the black skies, but most just stood there, trying to uncramp their muscles.

Harissa pawed at her ears, hoping to regain her hearing.

Their only light came from the tanks, the clouds hiding the stars from view.

Harissa rubbed the mud from her chrono. She’d refused to look at it before, for fear of adding to the difficulty of remaining trapped.

Yes.

It had certainly _felt_ like an eternity.

No wonder it was already early morning.

“Scouts, report in,” Ima-Gun’s voice came through the comlink. Relieved she could hear him, Harissa leaned against an AT-TE leg.

She wanted to sleep for a year.

“I need you to set out, find us shelter where we can rest and regroup.”

Oh, yes please. Somewhere they could hide if the clouds decided to let loose again.

Somewhere _not_ under the AT-TEs.

_But the first order of business for_ me _is to retrieve my closer-to-dry tunic from the fighter._

The... _fighter_.

Harissa would have smacked her forehead if it wouldn’t hurt so much given her present headache.

_Oh, well done, Padawan. You could have been stowed away out of the cold, out of the wet, and safe from the shrapnel. Maybe even having a nice conversation with Neight._

The lure sounded nice.

It also didn’t feel quite realistic.

As she wound her way around troopers to reach her destination, she shook her head. _Could I have really left them in that, while I tucked myself away in comfort?_

The dream shattered, and she ground it into the mud beneath her boots as she walked.

Certainly not.

What her men endured, _she_ would. _I’m not going to be one of those military minds who doesn’t know what the men suffer._

But that didn’t prevent her from collapsing into her fighter after she’d peeled off the destroyed tunic and replaced it.

She shut the hatch and asked Neight to turn the heat up.

Her head fell back against the seat, and she let her aching eyes fall shut.

Her comlink’s chirp awakened her. She found the clouds had passed and dawn approaching. “Yes?”

“We’re heading out. The scouts found us a cave system a half-hour’s march from here. I don’t want you flying.”

“Yes, Master.” That was probably wise, given her condition. She left the ship to Neight and fell in with her master at the head of the forming column.

“Where are the droids?” she asked.

“They had nowhere to take shelter,” Ima-Gun explained. “They retreated all the way back to the treeline. The destruction forms quite the trail.”

“How heavy are their losses?” Harissa asked, feeling a little jolt of positivity.

“Very,” Ima-Gun assured her.

Harissa’s gut sobered. “And ours?”

“We lost four men. The rest need medical attention. Bandage has been doing what he can, but we need a place to spread out and _dry_ out.”

“Speaking of that, Master. The water is destroying my clothes. Why isn’t it destroying yours?”

He threw her a puzzled glance as they led the clones towards the coordinates the scouts had sent. Harissa could almost see him thinking, and then understanding dawned.

“So _that’s_ what happened.” He chuckled. “Months ago, when the clones and I first arrived, my clothes were a few years old and rather threadbare. I just figured they’d finally given out. As for the boots, I had already traded them out with the armor. Qotu felt it owed me something. A small matter with a hyena bomber that I took out before it obliterated the village. They gave me these,” he gestured to his clothes and cloak. “Already made. I accepted, and haven’t thought about it since.”

Harissa studied the fabrics. “Native fibers that are resistant to the native water. Of course. And it seems to have held up against the hail, when even the clones’ bodygloves couldn’t.”

“We’ll just have to see if your new friends will allow us to do a little shopping,” Ima-Gun chuckled.

Harissa knew her smile looked tired.

Maybe she wouldn’t have to sew quite so much once the basic problem was solved.

_That_ was worth looking forward to.

Every step grew more difficult to take than the last.

She lowered her head and just focused on taking each one. Planting every foot correctly, so she wouldn’t tumble. Keeping the momentum continuous, for fear of losing the will to keep on if she paused.

It was Ima-Gun’s hand on her shoulder that finally stopped her. “We’re here,” he murmured.

Harissa dragged her heavy, aching head up and discovered she stood in a large cavern.

A _dry_ cavern.

Dry?

She felt her throat twist just slightly in relief.

“You need to allow your clothes to dry out,” Ima-Gun directed. “You’re too chilled.”

Harissa gave him a nod as she followed him deeper into the cave system. She found a nook for herself, accepted the blanket one of the clones brought her, and spread it out on the hard stone.

She treasured the fact it was _dry_ , her fingers tracing the now-rare sensation lovingly. How had they managed to _dry_ it? Did they have secret drying capabilities on the AT-TEs that she’d been as-yet unaware of?

 

* * *

 

Keeli kept an eye on his commander as he directed the transformation of cavern into stronghold and camp.

The boys had found a dry blanket, tucked under one of the seats in an AT-TE, and brought it to him.

Watching Nol’s reverent hand caressing the cloth, he smiled to himself. He’d made a good call in ordering it to be given to her. She appreciated it.

_Poor kid’s not used to roughing it. Not quite this badly, anyway._

He never heard her complaining.

It impressed him. Even his brothers complained.

 

* * *

 

Harissa spread her destroyed tunic out on the stone, trying to expose as much of it to the open air as possible. Next followed the cloak. She poked at the hood, trying to ensure moisture couldn’t be trapped in folds.

Exhaustion lowered her concerns, allowed her training to take over. She piled her armor on the floor and pulled her leggings off, slipping out of her tunic. Spreading those as well, she felt the freezing draw they _had_ been disappear.

Her master had been right. The damp had been leeching what little body warmth she had left out of her.

She shivered in the cool air of the cave and promptly put on what armor she possessed over bare skin. She shook her hair out and lay belly-down on her blanket, spreading the hair over her shoulders and around her head to try to encourage it to let go of the moisture.

Snuggling into the dry warmth of the blanket, Harissa allowed every muscle in her body to relax. The lumpy floor beneath pressed into her skin. At any other time, that might have threatened sleep, but she felt too spent to take much notice.

No rain. No mud. No wind. A minimum of wet clothing pressing against her.

Somehow, she couldn’t imagine herself taking part in a Rain Day ever again. Sure, the Room of a Thousand Fountains looked glorious in rain, and feeling the delight of the Jedi around her was pleasant, but she’d had quite enough of being wet in her clothes, thank you very much.

Harissa dozed, unable to take an interest in the bustle going on around.

She barely roused when she heard Bandage’s familiar, “Let’s take a look at that.”

He cleaned the cuts on her back, nudged her out of the armor, and tended the lacerations. Harissa obeyed, hoping that compliance would result in being allowed to return to sleep sooner than later.

It felt like it took forever, but he finally pronounced her tended and moved on.

Harissa almost didn’t have the energy to put the armor back on... but it did make a bit of a difference in temperature. So she somehow managed before collapsing back against her marvelous blanket.

She heard Bandage fussing, heard her master’s low voice soothing, and cracked an eye open.

Ima-Gun had abandoned his tunics and leggings, undoubtedly leaving them spread out to dry.

“It had to have done _something_ to you, General. Those shards were like knives.”

“As you can see, that’s not true.” Ima-Gun eluded Bandage’s questing hands and lowered himself to his blanket. “I don’t have soft skin like you humans.”

“All due respect, Sir, that isn’t completely the case. Not anymore.”

Harissa couldn’t see a mark on the older Jedi except for the glaring destruction that tore his right arm from the hand to the shoulder.

Singe had said the Jedi’s arm was scarred from saving him.

Harissa now realized that had been an understatement.

The acid had done horrible things to the human’s skin, but the Nikto’s?

His unharmed outer covering looked closer to an exoskeleton than skin in the general use of the term. The acid had rippled it, in some places it almost looked like it had sloughed, then hardened again. In other areas, the acid had carved clear through, leaving muscle exposed. Harissa winced as she saw his bicep expand and contract as he settled in to sleep.

His body had adjusted, and the tissue had scarred to try to protect itself from the unfamiliar contact with the outside world, but to Harissa’s human mind it looked like it should be horrifically infected.

And that it should hurt. A _lot_.

Ima-Gun felt her concerned gaze on him and he turned his head to intercept. “Don’t worry about it,” he murmured.

Bandage crouched between them, trying to get a good look at the arm. “You’re _sure_ none of the hail reached the muscle tissue? Would you have noticed if it _had_?”

“Bandage,” Ima-Gun groaned. “Let me sleep. Please.”

“Is it safe?” Harissa asked the clone. “It looks terrible.”

“It’s as healed as it’s going to get,” the medic replied. “And if you believe the General, it doesn’t hurt. The outer shell isn’t designed to heal from an assault like this. I’ve learned what I can of Nikto anatomy, but—”

“I’m fine, Bandage. Go get some rest.”

“Sir—”

“It’s an order, Bandage. You’re just as exhausted as everyone else. You’ve taken care of the wounded; now _sleep_.”

Bandage stood with a sour nod. “Sir. Yes, sir.”

Harissa searched her master’s eyes a few more moments, trying to ascertain in the Force whether the old injury was as painless and safe as he claimed. Before she’d reached satisfaction, eyelids closed over weary blue, and he released his mind towards slumber.

With a slight frown, Harissa followed suit.

_You have to remember that he’s not human, so you can’t measure his injuries against humans’. You just can’t. If he says he’s fine, you should believe him. He’s not reckless. And he’s the only one here who would know for sure._

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, Harissa awoke feeling quite a bit better.

Also, very sore, and not just from the AT-TE incident.

She pushed up off the floor, slightly amazed she’d been able to sleep so well on its lumpy surface.

A hush lay over the cavern, interrupted by soft footfalls or the clack of armor and weaponry being cleaned. The sound brought comfort to the padawan. Something familiar. Safe. Normal.

She didn’t want to think about the end of the war, when the clones and Jedi would go their separate ways. _What will life be like without them?_

Harissa glanced down at her master. He lay very still, his Force signature a gentle pulse of sleep.

Careful not to disturb him, she nudged her clothes. The now dry fabric scraped across the stone, hard as wooden boards.

Amusement lit Harissa’s eyes. _That_ was going to have to change before she could attempt any sort of repair. She lifted her cloak, wrestled it into a wearable shape, and clamped it over her shoulders. Gathering up the other pieces, she moved a few meters away from Ima-Gun and sat down.

She drew off her right vambrace and held it upside-down between her knees. Taking the hail-torn tunic, she rubbed it over the elbow plate, coaxing the fabric back into some semblance of flexibility.

_Hopefully we’ll reach a village soon, but there’s no guarantee we_ will _. I have to make do until then._

_Time to get creative._

Harissa repeated the process with her leggings, and then the well-patched but still-whole tunic.

She’d seen many padawans experimenting with clothing styles. Some drew on cultural influences from their home planets, others concocted things entirely from their imaginations. Others went for a brutally practical look, with or without visual nods to Jedi traditional garb.

_The question for me is how can I most efficiently use what fabric I have left, and what do I want to use it_ for _._

The cloth was doing a very sorry job of protecting the body beneath from any of the rigors of this planet.

_And if I expect protection from it, it will be abused and only fall apart that much quicker. I’m going to rely on armor to protect me._

The threadbare fabric made only a subtle difference in temperature, and did nothing to block even a light wind.

_My cloak is in a bit better shape. I’m going to keep that as whole as possible, and use it for warmth._

Harissa looked down at herself and considered.

_The only use for them is to give myself the level of comfortability I need. Is that a word? And can I blame Ned for my attempted use of it?_

Pulling her stiff robe closer around herself, she set out to find Sketch. It wasn’t difficult. Brown marking pen in hand, he was designing a massive mural on the cave wall.

Ned, hanging from the ceiling by his ascension cable, blocked out calligraphy above his brother’s work. _Battle of the Hail._

“Looking good,” Harissa offered, especially appreciating the droids fleeing in a panic, tripping over one another as they ran.

Sketch, who’d taken the time to spike his hair, gave her a grunt and didn’t glance up from his work.

“I’m looking for flimsi. I figured that if anyone would have a stash of it nearby—”

“I did. It ended up soaked and disintegrated,” Sketch grumbled. “We’ll have to wait for the Recovery to get back for more. Draw on the floor. You’ve got a pen, right?”

Harissa frowned. “I was going to try some concept ideas for clothing alterations. It’s not going to be _art_.”

Sketch shrugged. “Put swirls around them when you’re done, and sure, they will be.”

As Harissa headed back for her corner, she shook her head. Oh, that confidence of theirs.

_Why do they have so much of it? And why don’t I? It’s not because I’ve lost more people, surely. And it’s not like their future is_ more _certain than mine, or that the general population sees them in a more positive light than they do Jedi. How much of it was built into them, and how much did Master Di give them?_

Harissa sat down and eyed her marking pen.

_And how much can I appropriate?_

There was only one way to find out.

She drew several stick-figures on the floor, and considered the tunics and leggings.

_It won’t take long for the clones to find more leg armor for me._

That would cover her from toe to thigh.

She reached out and snagged her obi and belt.

The fabric was in just as bad shape as the rest, and the leather belt had cracks running through it.

Harissa fingered the clip that allowed her to hang her lightsaber. _I wonder if it could be attached to one of the standard-issue belts._

_Worker could probably figure something out._

The armor certainly wasn’t unpleasant against her skin, and when fabric became wet, it chaffed between armor into flesh.

On one of the stick figures, Harissa sketched a short skirt.

_If I cut the legs off the waist, and then split the legs down the sides... I could stitch them into one double thick sheet to make up for the tears, then wrap it around and reattach it to the waist. It would require some pleats to make it fit, but that will give me legroom to run._

As for the _other_ pair of leggings...

_I’ll cut it off mid-thigh, use the lower legs to patch the upper areas, and save the rest of it for later repairs. Wear the shorts beneath the skirt._

Satisfied, Harissa attacked the clothes.

The results probably wouldn’t have looked very impressive to a casual observer, but Harissa felt it to be some of her best work.

_And_ it was somewhat comfortable.

When Neight showed her a holo, Harissa felt pleased. She looked ragged, but rather liked it.

After drawing some more on the floor, liking some designs and NOT others, she removed the sleeves from her mostly-intact tunic. She managed to form a hood from them, sewing it to the back of it.

That would save her from having to use her cloak routinely, which would make it last longer.

Harissa took strips from the destroyed tunic, sewed her obi into a tube, and created a shirt of sorts. It didn’t quite reach her waist, but once she had a clone-style belt, her skin would be protected.

She still had some bits of legging left over, as well as scraps from the tunic. She cut them apart, then pieced them together, sacrificing a thin band of fabric from the base of her cloak.

This gave her another skirt-like garment.

Clothed, and with the spares and her cloak tucked into the fighter, Harissa returned to her stick people.

Since she didn’t have any pressing duties, why _not_ decorate a bit further?

Harissa sat again and began framing them with swirls and dots.

“I like the hood.”

Harissa didn’t have to look up to know it was Keeli; she could sense him.

“Thanks. I’m pretty pleased with it.”

For a long moment he stood watching her, and then he sat down.

Surprised, Harissa glanced over at him.

“The plan is to stay here until at least tomorrow.”

Harissa felt a small smile flit across her face. “Good.”

She could use the break, and she knew the men needed one as well. She reached out, found her master still asleep.

That gentled her smile. _He must be really wiped out._

The padawan returned to her doodling, and the captain watched in silence.

 

* * *

 

This had seemed like a better idea _before_ he’d gotten here.

Keeli hadn’t the faintest idea what to say next.

It wouldn’t be like that for Threetu or any of the others. _But I am not my brothers._

_But if the_ Commander _was one of my brothers... what would I be doing?_

Not one who’d only ever been his subordinate, but one of his batch mates...

Keeli drew his own marking pen from his belt. “Would you mind?” he asked.

Harissa glanced at him and shook her head. “Go ahead.”

Relieved, Keeli tackled the first stick figure.

Most of the boys had learned to draw from watching Sketch. Their art tended to curve, sway, and bend the way his did.

Keeli’s history with doodling began long before he met Sketch. He’d never mastered his brother’s skill with living, organic shapes. Instead, he had focused on geometric ones.

Zigzags formed around his chosen stick figure, interweaving together and becoming more complex the further he worked his way out.

When his hand edged close to Harissa’s, he softened his strokes, curving the stiff lines just a bit.

Harissa glanced at him to make sure it was alright, and then drew spirals branching off of his lines, intertwining with her own.

Keeli’s lines, having approached a new rough sketch, encompassed it, radiating ever outwards.

It was the first time Keeli had felt comfortable with the padawan away from the battlefield.

 

* * *

 

Harissa wasn’t quite sure what to make of their clone captain, but she enjoyed the feeling of easy camaraderie.

She didn’t know how long they had been at work before she recognized a tingle in the Force. Glancing up, she saw multiple clone faces turn away. Others felt no shame whatsoever, and no need to be covert. Their dark eyes met hers, looking pleased and curious at the same time.

Harissa’s heart warmed along with her face.

She lowered her head to continue drawing. “They’re all watching,” she murmured.

“Of course they are.”

“Was it like this on Kamino?”

Keeli snorted a laugh. “Yes, but it was harder. If the Kaminoans caught us paying attention to things they didn’t consider to be our business, they cracked down hard. We learned to hide pretty well. Turns out that for the most part, the General doesn’t care. Makes it easy. The boys have grown sloppy. Don’t worry; if we send any undercover, they’ll do alright. It’s just here they lower their guard.”

“I don’t think it’s a bad thing.” Harissa saw his quick head movement as he scanned her face.

She could feel his smile.

 

* * *

 

Ima-Gun jolted awake, unease whispering through his body.

He’d dreamed.

_Since when do I have dreams?_

He lay still for a moment, focusing on breathing.

He couldn’t remember what had been in the dream. Something... awful.

_What was it?_

Sitting up, he tried to shake the fuzziness from his head.

Apparently he hadn’t gotten enough sleep yet.

Counting the hours, he estimated that if he retired early this evening, he should be able to catch up by morning.

He looked forward to it.

Gathering up his clothes, he began to dress, only to catch sight of his padawan and his captain.

In the Force they hummed with harmony.

The cheerful sight drove thoughts of the forgotten dream from his mind as he treasured the moment.

The rest of the day was filled with other precious moments. Yessir and Web whispering in a corner. Ned chronicling, with help from his brothers. Sketch’s dedication to his ever-growing mural. Threetu inking tattoos.

The droids didn’t approach, and all lay quiet.

Ima-Gun retired even earlier than he’d intended, hoping the extra hour would help his present condition.

The thing of it was, he _wasn’t_ caught up by morning. He felt almost as tired and worn thin as he had upon their arrival to the cavern.

He scanned his body, trying to find a hint of sickness. There didn’t seem to be any. He’d always been able to recover using sleep before. He _knew_ his body and his mind.

_I should be back to peak efficiency._

The fuzziness in his brain wouldn’t go away.

It had refused to leave him ever since his return to New Draxis.

_I must be getting old_.

His comlink buzzed, along with every other in the cave. “General Di, this is Admiral Dao. We’ve regained control up here. Your communications and supply lines are back open, and I’ve brought you reinforcements.”

Ima-Gun couldn’t reply right away— the 337th’s cheering was too deafening— but he kept his link open so the bridge crew of the Recovery could experience their brothers’ enthusiasm.

He felt Harissa’s plume of emotion in the Force, brilliant and fully in harmony with the clones’. It cheered his heart.

When he felt pretty sure Dao would be able to hear him over the ruckus, he smiled. “Admiral. It’s good to hear your voice. I’m sending you our coordinates. The reinforcements will be most welcome.”

His gaze sought out Harissa’s exuberant form as she laughed, joined in with the back-clapping, and the war cries. He marveled at how rich she made his life.

He had no regrets for taking the human child on as his padawan.

None at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello wonderful people. This has been such an enjoyable experience for me, thank you for reading and leaving me comments. I am currently working on the second half of this duology. I have 50,000+ words written, and the outline for the rest. My goal is to have the entire novel at a Draft 1 stage before I start posting chapters for you; that way I can have some control over when chapters end up posted (Draft 3). If you are interested in following along, you may want to consider subscribing to the Padawan of Fear series, since Only Preparation is now over. 
> 
> Also: If you want updates about my stories as I work on them, accounts of my escapades in the Star Wars: The Old Republic game, and any other geekery I may be up to, feel free to come find me at: www.RememberCloneCaptainKeeli.blogspot.com
> 
> Thank you for letting me take you on this journey, and may the Force be with you.


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